Wintersong
by chezchuckles
Summary: An advent style story for the holiday season. Current with season eight, contains spoilers. For the soundtrack, visit my utube channel under chezchuckles. Thank you all for another blessing of a year.
1. December 1

**Wintersong**

* * *

an Advent-style story

for the soundtrack, check out my channel on utube: chezchuckles

(current to season eight)

* * *

 **December 1**

 **X**

 _December never felt so wrong_

 **X**

When the bell rings over the door at Remy's, Kate Beckett lifts her head from her booth in the back and feels her world shift on its axis and turn, orienting as if to the sun.

 _No one can know what we're doing._

Except now Castle knows. He knows what they're doing. Everything is out there.

And he's here.

Her breath catches at the slope of his shoulders, the turn of his head. He doesn't see her, and she's alone in the shadows trying to finish up notes for a meeting in the morning.

It's a coincidence, it really is happenstance. After a lonely Thanksgiving, they've made eyes at each other in a crowded room and he's touched her hand at the precinct when he brought in a 'citizen's arrest', but so far he's played it straight.

So straight that sometimes it takes her aback, catches her off-guard, the civility of his eyes, the polite smile.

(Is it really that easy? Fake separation and real reconciliation, all in one twenty-second confession. _I was wrong, you were right_. And now they're copacetic and everything is fine even if the city thinks they're on the rocks, even if her own father is calling her to 'talk sense' into her.

It's not easy.)

From where she sits, she's encased in a back booth with its dark wood and she can study him as he sits down. Remy's is always still and quiet this late at night, and she has plans to close them up, work until her fingers cramp, knocking back cups of coffee for the warmth.

Castle puts his elbows on the table, his back to her, rests his chin in his fists. His face is in profile, but she sees the way his eyes close as if releasing it all at the end of the day.

Her heart hurts.

In a rather joyless Monday, she missed a CompStats meeting in favor of what she thought would be a lead, and then spent all day today answering to her superiors and trying to catch up. It's happening more and more the closer they get to LockSat, these threads that unravel to nothing. It leaves her scrambling to get a foothold in the work of the Twelfth. She's spent the last few hours poring over the meeting's recorded minutes, taking notes in a cramped hand in the very back of the diner.

But in the midst of a workload that won't quit, Castle is a relief.

Her husband. Hunched in a booth near the front. Here with her but not with her.

This is somehow harder, having him and not having him.

Like it's too good to be true, like she might ruin it anyway, like her worst nightmares are waiting around the corner. Observing him in his natural state, she can see how much it's taking a toll on him as well.

His head lifts and his fingers shift to touch the window at his shoulder, a line in the frost as if he might make designs, might draw a heart, and then write their names inside.

But he doesn't; his hand drops back to the table. The waitress approaches, and once he's ordered, stillness falls on his shoulders like a mantle.

He's not usually the man for quiet. Or sober reflection. But it seems like he's doing both.

The winter outside seeps in through the window, leaching the warmth from her blood. Kate can't keep her eyes away from him, tugging the lapels of her coat tighter around her to ward off the chill. Her coffee has gone cold, lost its magic. Castle is better than coffee, if only she could reach out and touch...

His elbows on the table, he rubs his hands down his face. His head tilts forward. Shoulders hunch. His aloneness is a blanket of snow, sifting out the sharper edges, dulling his features.

She takes a stinging breath and makes her decision, foolish, dangerous as it might be. She gathers her laptop, the notes, all of her paperwork, sliding it into the satchel he bought for her in celebration that night. All those nights, the warmth of them held like a candle, bright and strong.

How precarious their time together, how fragile her happiness.

How fragile his.

She misses him more now, together but not together. Their time apart might be mutually agreed upon, but it doesn't change the fact of the missing.

She grips the briefcase and pockets her phone, rises from the booth. Kate threads through the tables and chairs, the empty places, the scarred wooden tops. They're the last two people in the place, and her movements don't go unnoticed.

His head comes up, his hands come down. Surprise colors his face, makes his eyes hesitant. He glances surreptitiously around and then grabs for her, fingers hooking in the pocket of her coat. "Kate."

She can't be doing this. In public, so many eyes, so many witnesses. They agreed on the ground rules before Thanksgiving, how dangerous it is this time.

"Sit?" he whispers.

She sinks down across from him despite her best intentions, settles the leather satchel on the seat next to her. She lays her hands on the table, studying him, trying to gather any kind of self-control she can possibly muster. He seems to be doing the same. Waiting on her to start. "Rick."

His shoulders come down and he eases back in the booth, released, his eyes trailing to the view from the window, the lonely dark and the winter that braces. She doesn't know how to take that, his eagerness to have her and yet his resignation now that she's here.

"I've missed you," he sighs, as if speaking to no one, as if telling a secret to the night.

"I miss you, too." Still misses him. Even together, they're not together.

His hands are folded in his lap, and even though she can't see them, she knows the set of his wide fingers and the thickness of his knuckles, knows how they look clasped around hers.

She knows so much, every line radiating from his eyes when they're happy, every furrow in his brow when he's frustrated. She has seen his heart breaking in his eyes, and she never meant for that to happen, never meant to make it so hard.

She knows so much, and as he proved to her, she knows so little.

But what she knows so fully, so intimately, is that she can't live with the loss of him.

And sometimes, it feels like she's lost him.

"What did you order?" she asks, seeking him, hoping to find. _Ask and seek and knock_. She's looking for an open door. "Enough for me?"

The corner of his mouth crooks in something sheepish, and he declines to comment. But the waitress returns at just that moment with a plate of french fries and a milkshake.

Kate presses a fist over her mouth as he refuses to meet her eyes.

That's her order.

Not his.

"I miss you," he grumbles, and his mouth twists, frustration through amusement. But not.

It's not funny.

He shakes his head and shrugs.

She slides a french fry from the precarious stack. Castle tips the ketchup towards her and she dips the end, bends the fry in the middle to push it into her mouth.

He nudges the milkshake her way and she hesitates, but he's already sitting back, a deep satisfaction on his face, as he always has when he can somehow provide for her basic needs. How he wants her to need him, how she's never going to be that person.

She licks salt from her thumb and then touches the straw, fiddling with it before she gives in and samples the milkshake.

Strawberry.

Oh, Castle. It's her side of things, and him doing it alone.

She stretches a hand across the table at the same instant he's reaching for her and their fingers collide, tangle, mesh. Already she can take a deeper breath, just clutching his hand, and he looks relieved.

"I'm not sure what I'm allowed to do here," he says. His voice is rough and he takes a breath to clear it. "But I'm done with asking for permission. I'm more of an 'ask for forgiveness' kind of guy anyway." His fingers curl around hers, tightening, lips curling in that same way. Something desperate to it that makes her heart nudge up to her throat.

She sighs. "I'm still your wife."

"Just not my partner."

She has no response for that. Because it's true in some ways, but not in others. For right now, they can't be partners. He can't be investigating this case on his own, he doesn't have those resources, he will only get himself killed. A knife to his guts at his own Christmas party; she's had that nightmare more than once. Or just - vanished. Another car accident but this time no trace, not a whisper.

Just lost.

"We talked about this," she says, hesitating.

"Yeah." He nods, his jaw working. "I'd still like to help, regardless of the risk. If you're in trouble, I'll do whatever it takes-"

"And that's why I am taking this so seriously, Castle. I am responsible for what I ask of you, what you do for me because you love me. I won't put you - _us_ \- in jeopardy just so I can be broken."

"That's not how I meant that," he slumps.

She tries to shrug, but she feels wounded. It hurt, that truth. "I thought about what you said. When everything fell apart with our best lead, I couldn't get it out of my head. I realized that I don't even think of the things I could have. I only think in terms of what - what I can't."

"Kate," he sighs.

She stares at his hands on top of the table, at her fingers over his. "I don't know why I'm like this."

"This? This is who you are. Who I love. Even when you frustrate the hell out of me." His fingers nudge up against her own. "And I want to have your back, Kate."

"You do have my back." She rubs her thumb along his knuckles, willing him to see it in her, feeling like she needs to prove it. "I love you, and you know that won't change just because you're not in the thick of it. We're still side by side. It's just - Vikram has the computer savvy to keep us off LockSat's radar. I promise I'll let you know when I need you."

She's not surprised when his eyes won't meet hers, not surprised by the bleak wash over his face. For a man of words, he has trouble believing them. Maybe it comes from being able to manipulate them so easily.

She squeezes his hand where it hooks with hers. His eyes finally lift.

"I have a lot of paperwork before I can call it a night. Come - out with me. We'll find a random coffee shop that's open all night. A place where no one knows us. We can talk."

A ghost of his usual smile comes over him. "You know I don't do paperwork." His hand withdraws.

"I know," she whispers. "Still?"

He gives a slow breath out and a closing of his eyes, like his resolve is crumbling, or maybe being shored up once more.

He stands first, gesturing _after you_ as he waits. She slides out of the booth and moves towards the register to pay, wondering if he'll follow.

He does.

 **X**


	2. December 2

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 2_**

 ** _X_**

 _I give my heart_

 **X**

It's after midnight when they head for Bus Stop Cafe. It's close to his PI office, but not one of their usual spots, and it's open twenty-four hours. The insanely red brick building shines outside and in, a too-bright bulb on the strand of tangled Christmas lights that is the city. They've brought a doggy bag of Remy's french fries, and they order coffee as well; she sets out her work stuff on their table.

But she doesn't do paperwork.

There is some of that, but the shadows are too deep, and as she licks salt and ketchup from her fingers, he can see the way she absorbs him, soaks him up. It's not just him, then. She hungers too.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" she murmurs.

He doesn't want to tell her he mostly mopes, having her but not having her. "Well," he answers finally. "Distractions. Lucy - that's the home AI. And, um, some PI cases, but it's also life, you know? Fill up my hours with the same things I'd be doing if you were coming home at night."

She avoids his eyes on that one, but she doesn't avoid the statement. He's surprised by that, by how she owns it.

"It's lonely," she admits.

He nods, a short jerk of his head because he's afraid of what will come out if he opens his mouth. It's lonely. Yes. End of statement. No discovery phase of this trial. Probing too deep into that will threaten this tenuous pax they've found.

"I'm trying to stick to safe lines," she says then. "For - our - this. To not make it worse."

"Lines," he sighs. Like how she doesn't kiss him in public, but she'll cup his face in her hands? "Yeah, she said you-"

"She?" Startled. Immediate. A catch in her voice.

Castle pauses, both horrified and intrigued by her reaction. "I'm seeing someone," he says finally. "A therapist."

His honest answer almost seems worse; for a moment, she looks devastated, her eyes ragged with emotion. "Oh, your... therapist?"

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Poor word choice, that's all. "Yes, therapist - not like _that_ seeing her. I'm going to a therapist. Well, I went once. To see if it would help."

"Help. Because of me? My - needing an obsession."

He shrugs, a knot in his chest. The therapist didn't exactly say that; it was his own conclusion. "Not just you. I've got a less than stellar track record, and I don't want to lose my wife just because I can't stop making the same mistakes."

"Mistakes," she echoes. Her face is blank.

"It takes two," he confesses. It's not the same now, of course. Now that he knows it's not about him. "That was before - before all of this. But it's still a relationship, and a relationship has two sides. When it goes wrong, it's not just one person's fault."

"Oh, God. Castle, I told you that's not-"

"Of course it is," he growls. He's too - wound up on this one. It's a sensitive subject; the therapist poked at things he's still vulnerable about. "Of course that's part of this, Kate. A marriage doesn't fail all on its own. We're both-"

"It's not _failed_ ," she cries out. "We're not failed."

He scrubs his hand down his face. "No, I know. We're fake broken up. A cover. I know. But. I'm not sure I'd call this success."

She doesn't have an answer for that and he recognizes the bitterness leaking into his voice, has to put a stop to that. Kate is having coffee with him; he won't ruin it with recriminations, with his tangled and bruised mess. That's what the therapist is for.

He should make a new appointment, but what could he say? He can't tell the woman that no, actually, he and his wife aren't split up, just separated for his safety, _never mind, I was wrong._

"I just - like you said," he explains quietly. "I wanted to put in the work. Do my time, understand where the problems are so I could fix it. Fix _me_ , at least."

She just stares at him, aghast.

"What," he mutters, looking away. "You went to therapy. It worked for you."

"Did it?" she croaks.

He jerks his gaze back to her, a sharp awareness coming through his skin like a bone breaking. _You need this obsession._

"Castle, this isn't a failed marriage; we aren't failed. We work." Her hand reaches out and takes his, squeezing, but instead of hanging on to him, caressing his knuckles like she would have, used to, she withdraws.

Lines. She's marked lines in the sand of where she's not allowed to cross, and that hurts. They're alone here, but they're still in public.

"Right," he says, head bobbing in an agreement he doesn't feel. At least to any passers-by, they look like two doomed people hammering out the terms of their amicable split. "We work so well that you won't work with me."

Her lips twist and her head turns away. "It's not that. It's just about resources. You and I - we _are_ working on this together. Coming up with theories together. Like we have in the past."

But he doesn't have Vikram's computer skills; he'll bring the whole thing down on them if he puts his nose into it. It's absurd how much that hurts. It's only the truth, and he doesn't want her in trouble either. He will keep his nose out of it if it means keeping her safe.

He flattens his hands on the table, touches his thumbs to the circumference of the coffee cup. "Never mind, Kate. We don't have to do this now." He just wants a night with her, free and clear, the conversation like they used to, the companionship. "I miss my friend, day in, day out with you."

She lets out a breath. "I know."

"We could just stay here for a little while longer," he says. "Talk about - anything at all. Doesn't have to be this case."

She has _no_ in her eyes, already walling herself up for the inevitable separation. She still hasn't said where she's staying at night, where she goes when she doesn't go home with him.

Sometimes he can't understand her, sometimes she's so opposite of what he expects that he finds himself second-guessing his own certainties. He proposed out of determination, but maybe she read it as desperation and responded in kind. He's loved her in some way or another since she hauled him out of his book party, but he had to grow on her.

Maybe those walls really never fell. Maybe it's just going to take her longer.

"Are you going to talk about this in therapy?" she says, as if trying to tease. It falls flat, and her eyes have real grief in them. Real ache.

"No, probably not," he sighs.

"Oh?"

"What would I say? How in the world could I explain this."

Kate fiddles with her coffee cup; he can't see her eyes. Her hair falls forward and he yearns to push it back behind her ear.

So he does. And he lingers.

Her eyes close and her head cants into his touch. "It's pointless now, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer until she opens her eyes again. When her gaze catches his, he nods. Pointless. She's his wife; she came back. The therapist is moot.

"It's raining," she murmurs, her lips grazing the inside of his wrist. She catches his hand with both of hers, draws his touch away from her face. "Looks like we're stuck here for a little while yet."

He knows it's a one-off. He knows it won't happen again. In public, he can't be hers; she can't be his.

Polite acquaintances.

"If we can keep doing this. Chance meetings. I think it will get me through December," he murmurs, unable to help himself.

She doesn't answer. But she doesn't let go of him, either, and so he sits there across from her, and he hopes the rain never stops, hopes she stays in the booth with him until the sun rises.

 **X**


	3. December 3

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 3_**

 ** _X_**

silence is all you know

 **X**

Kate sits in her glass fishbowl.

It's Castle's term for the captain's office, borrowed from the Heat books, but it's so apt that she can't help using it. Fishbowl. And she is the betta fish, separated, silenced, the world outside muffled by glass and atmosphere.

It has to be, to get any work done. But she lays her pen down and she lets her eyes drift to the interior windows that look out onto the world that used to be her only world, the Homicide bullpen.

Not anymore. She's not a part of things. She's in charge; she asks for updates and directs the boys when they're stuck, but it's not her pond.

This is her life now. This silent fishbowl of an office.

Sometimes, she'll catch the blur of color past her door, the streams of uniforms and administrative aides, the detectives coming back or leaving, the baseball being tossed in a high arc and coming down.

All silent, that outside world.

When she works on her laptop, the keyboard clicks while the radiator yawns awake, heated water popping the pipes. When she opens up her notebook, the pages rustle and flutter. When she makes a call, she finds herself lowering her voice to match the mood of the dark paneled wood and the heavy low couch and the golden lamplight.

Reserved. Constrained. It's been her watchword these last few months, trying to hold herself back so that she doesn't get him hurt. Doesn't get _anyone_ hurt. Any of the detectives in her house.

But she doesn't have to be, according to her husband. She doesn't have to be alone in this.

Beckett caps her pen and leaves it perched on the edge of the blotter, stands up from her desk. She can hear the old bones of the wood creaking as she leans on the desktop, the clatter of the chair's wheels. She steps away and strides for her door, her heels clicking smartly, professionally.

From the windows, she can see Espo tossing the ball with Ryan, the two of them arguing back and forth, the ball pitched a little too hard, and if she was out there in the thick of it, she would have stepped in front of Ryan and snagged the ball out of the air, snapped some kind of witty remark about how lame they were being.

Now she walks out of her office and Esposito halts mid-throw, standing a little straighter while Ryan snaps to full attention, and eager. The bullpen doesn't go quiet, no, but it gets very efficient. Very brisk and official.

Ryan smooths down his tie. "Something you need, boss?"

 _Life again._

"How's the Dear John case?"

"Still can't find the wife," Ryan says, a flicker of his eyes back to Esposito. So they were arguing about it. Ryan hesitates, almost tells her, but then he says nothing.

She's the captain, not the squad leader, and it's difficult to step back, hard to keep herself from asking after it. But she nods and goes on through to the break room, as if that was always her intent. She bypasses the espresso machine because she just can't face it alone this afternoon, but that means she has to make a fresh pot.

Even the break room is a silent bubble in the midst of the swirling ocean. She's alone here too, three of the uniforms stepping out, throwing away their trash as they go. Interrogation room one is busy, she sees, but as she peers out to look, it's not a case she recognizes - and that's been more and more these days. Is it just being Captain and having her days crammed with budget meetings and CompStats, losing touch, or is she not measuring up, not able to keep up with LockSat on her mind?

Alone with her thoughts isn't the ideal place for her right now, but it seems it's all she has.

The coffee pot brews so slowly that its hacking and choking make her hackles rise, and she has to march briskly out of the break room and back inside her office, closing the door with a rattling slam just to breathe. She doesn't want that sludge anyway; she knows better.

Her phone is buzzing. She has it on silent because she doesn't want to be chasing down a lead on the other thing and have it go off, drawing attention to her position. Its insistent buzz makes her jumpy, but she hurries over, scoops it off her desk.

It's not Vikram. She doesn't recognize the number. She sends it to voice mail and sinks down to the edge of her desk, facing the windows that look to the world outside. The world as unreachable and grey as the one inside her Homicide bullpen. As blank as the inscape of her own circuitous thoughts.

This has gone on too long. LockSat. She's strong, but she doesn't know how strong, doesn't yet know where her mettle runs to sand instead of grit. She's afraid it's now, today, and that all her carefully built structures, walls and battlements, are so much clay and ash.

She wants so badly to call her _partner_ , have his voice fill up her silence, the thread of his narrative weave into her own. But his number can't appear on her call log and she can't give way to temptation or she'll never be able to do this - together but not together.

 **X**

She has meetings all afternoon - and well into the evening - at One Police Plaza.

She ought to be listening, but instead she can't help surveying the dense knot of uniformed captains and sergeants and wonder what she's doing here.

She is out of place.

Not that she doesn't belong - she does - oh, she is quite competent, more than, to make her mark on this institution. But it's more that she has a _calling_. She has a passion for this that rises above the mundane, the paperwork, the men at their desks putting in their time. It transcends.

She's more than this.

She's not _better_. She's not chosen. She's simply the perfect storm - a combination of circumstances, history, and personality quirks that have led her here. Led her to battle at injustice with everything in her, to stand up and fight because too many people have been overlooked, marginalized, exploited, abused - murdered.

Too many people. And everyone looking on, doing nothing.

She can't do nothing. She has been the victim; some part of her will always remain the orphaned girl.

The work she's doing on the side to investigate LockSat - it has been cultivated and nurtured for decades. Her mother began the work not with her death, but with her very life. Her crusade for truth, for justice in all aspects of the law, not just the high profile cases, not just those who could afford the best attorneys, but truth and justice where it hurt, where it could make you bleed.

Her mother died for it, and Kate is determined to follow-

 _no_

-She won't follow to her death; she's not looking to die.

 _I am not looking to die_

That's why all of this.

She won't share her mother's fate. She can walk the same path without damaging the people she loves, _and_ without losing her life to it.

She might bleed, but she doesn't have to die.

Castle's teaching her. She's a stubborn student, and sometimes so willfully blind, but he hasn't given up on her. She's figuring it out. She takes hope in him.

They have a plan. Remy's and coffee can't happen again, not for so many hours in public together, not with all the pitfalls stacked against her. Not if she wants to finish this, not if she wants to survive to the other side.

If something happens to him-

She did it this way for a reason. She has to remain at a distance. For his safety, even for her own.

Because there are no more secrets.

It's scary, knowing how he can't pass up a good mystery, how he can't keep his hands off it. It's scary to think the only way she can protect him is by staying away from him. Until LockSat is no longer in play, she can't be with Castle.

But-

She _is_ still with Castle. He's so deep in her heart that he's become her heart, and if keeping a physical distance is hard, keeping an emotional one is entirely impossible. Why does she persist?

He _told_ her that there was another way, and he was right. He called her out for being narrow-minded, unable to see the forest for the trees. _You could have come to me._

Kate sits up straighter, shock trickling down her spine and settling icy in her guts.

Why _can't_ she come to him? Why can't she see him when she longs for him, why can't she touch him, lean into him - he _told_ her to. Even though it's dangerous, even though it feels like she's baring his throat to the wolves when she so much as smiles at him, he told her to come to him.

Just because they're putting on a show doesn't mean she has to stop actively loving him. Her love doesn't have to be passive.

There are things she can _do_ , even if the world around them can never see them together.

 _You could have come to me._

Now she gets it. Now she fully understands.

 **X**


	4. December 4

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 4**_

 **X**

 _if you loved me_

 **X**

It's late, and the day has left its own wounds.

But Castle wants to believe that the night is dark enough to hide them, so he draws on his wool coat and tucks his phone into his inside pocket, and he heads out the door. The sound of his key in the lock is overly loud, and the elevator creaks like a wheezing old man, but out on the street, he takes a deep breath. The textured scent of too-far stars and a too-near pretzel vendor. Salt and light.

He hasn't seen her all day. No eyes meeting across rooms, no symbolic touches, not even the lingering hint of her lotion in the bathroom.

He expected something a lot different from this. Secret hook-ups and sneaking out of her command center at three in the morning, whispered conversations on cell phones and hurried kisses good-bye as the light started to wash the sky.

Spy stuff.

Mostly it just loneliness, and worrying about her back-up.

He wanders the streets at first. Wanders with his feet making that particular sound on the pavement, grit under rubber soles. He stuffs his hands into his pockets for warmth, has to keep reminding himself to lower his hunched shoulders so his neck won't ache tomorrow.

His pillows have all gone flat. He needs to buy new ones. When he mentioned it to Alexis, rather off-hand, about the stiffness in his neck when he wakes, she gave that little scoffing noise that meant _because you're sleeping in your office_. He's still doing that, unable to face the loft at night and its muted emptiness. He has to work at directing his feet away from the line that will take him back there, to his private investigator's office, and so he purposefully heads for brighter lights, busier streets, shopping crowds.

Christmas comes in about three weeks. He's having a hard time imagining what it looks like. It's a knot in his chest that's hard to breathe around.

Head up, much as possible. He can last twenty more days. And then it's over, the holiday will gave come and gone, and whatever progress they've made on the case is progress.

Better than where they are now.

He can do this.

His eyes are straight ahead, his line of sight completely unobscured, when he catches the bright bloom of a red coat about four blocks up.

He knows that coat.

It propels him forward, his stride lengthening, chasing after it just that quickly. He starts following that red coat down the block, eating up the distance between them with his long legs, not letting himself think too hard about it. He dodges pedestrians and joggers, dog walkers and late workers, shoppers and tourists; he follows that coat to the edge of his neighborhood and then beyond.

He's being led into the heart of Manhattan by a red coat and a certain grace of movement, and he knows it's not her, he _knows_ it's not, but his body doesn't seem to want to listen. Neither does his heart.

He wants it to be Kate, fleeing the scene of her crime. He wants it to be Kate at all, just to reach out and take her by the elbow and spin her around and know she can't stay away from him either.

(But it's not Kate.)

The coat vanishes like a mirage.

He comes to a halt, panting cold air so that it billows in a cloud in front of his face. The block is suddenly empty. It's not Kate.

Or if it was, she's now blended with the night. He's at the corner of Broadway and Broome, confronted by the impossibility of her and the glare of the outside world. He takes a fast breath, scanning the block. Bloomingdale's with its holiday display windows of Charlie Brown and Lucy and Linus, opposite that a bright orange-red brick of the corner bank, farther down the Old Navy with its white facade and twinkling star lights and pencil trees.

No coat.

Traffic is oncoming, one way, and the Halal Food truck on the far sidewalk gives off a beckoning aroma. He crosses the street at the light and waits in line, buys a gyro with lamb and basmati rice, and he eats it as he walks, messy but feeling more connected to his world for the mess. He licks his thumbs and fingers clean, tosses the wrap and napkins in the nearest black trash can. He finds himself moving past frosted department stores and throwback vintage Christmas decor, avoiding all of it even as he's caught in the thrum of _stuff_. Buying in to a way of life.

He bought in. He wants it. But nothing in these stores can bring her back to him. A closet of beautiful dresses, every diamond jewelry piece inside these boutiques, a credit card with no maximum limit - none of it matters, none of it will sway her.

She thinks that her very _nature_ will get him killed.

And he can't say she's not right.

That's who she is, the crusader, the valiant warrior goddess, and while he can list all the famous and alluring archetypes found throughout the history of the world, she is still Kate Beckett, his wife, and the two somehow have to coexist.

He stops at Houston, trying to see across the divided avenue to the buildings crowding either side of Broadway, to the people ducking in and out of stores and pedestrian traffic, but it offers only more of the same. More and more of the same.

No red coat. Nothing of any true worth.

True worth is what he values in her, _loves._ As a writer, he knows what it is to have purpose, to feel that you are so _good_ at something that to stifle it would be a crime, a sin, an error, a fatal disservice to the world. Call it hubris, call it conviction, Castle knows what it's like to have a calling. He won't - would never - ask her to stop.

She has taught him there are things worth dying for, that integrity has meaning. And he honors it in her.

Even if it makes him lonely.

He's not sure what draws his eyes, but he finds himself heading towards a squatty brick facade sandwiched between a Crate & Barrel and a Sunglass Hut. It has two windows with those not-cool multi-colored lights strung haphazardly across their panes and a wide brown door. The sign is some kind of mural, earth tones and a brilliant yellow - almost neon - that spells out simply _cafe_.

He crosses Houston, not even sure why. It's not like he needs another coffee place. It's not easy to reach with Houston so traffic-jammed, but when he manages to step under the cafe's awning, he nearly falls into the low window.

A flash of red coat.

He pushes inside, stepping through the vestibule with its cracked subway tile entry, wiping his feet on the mat out of habit. He cranes his neck, looking for that red coat, but instead he crashes into the back of the man ahead of him in line. He has to apologize, cheeks warm, trying to smile through the disappointment, the terrible collapse of hope.

He knew it wasn't Kate. There's no reason for Kate to be spying on him. Why does he do this to himself?

Now that he's here, and has managed to upset the quiet atmosphere with his fumbling, he feels compelled to stay, buy a cup of coffee to make up for it. The line goes quickly, and the man behind the counter is nice enough, though briskly efficient. When Rick gets his earthenware mug, he sinks down to a chair at the front near the windows.

He knows he's watching for a red coat.

She won't be here, striding through holiday shoppers in one of the most commercial districts in the city, but he can't help himself. The display across the street houses a glittering palace of ice sculptures and icicles, like a North Pole exhibit, and after a moment, he realizes that a real man is behind one of those windows with his chain saw and tools, carving a beautiful and breathtaking angel right in front of Castle's eyes.

He's glad he's stopped to witness the artistry at work, a calling fulfilled.

And the coffee is good, and his loft is empty, and at least here there are people, and warmth at his back.

At least here he can't hope for a knock at his door that he knows won't be coming.

He resists the urge to pull out his phone, unwilling to let it be a crutch, and he cradles both hands around his mug to people watch, the crowds as they realize the man is alive, as they catch sight of the sculpture being revealed, as they share in wonder.

He lets the world drift by the window and his mind as well, making up stories.

As it usually does, scenes develop from the dregs, like reading tea leaves for shapes that have meaning. A woman in a long striped scarf, a man with dentures he keeps pushing at with his tongue, a troupe of fourteen year old girls who apparently want to be ballet stars in their leotards and pointe shoes and leather jackets. The older woman with her dog in the crook of one arm, the mid-thirties man with his goatee and beanie hat and book. A couple hand in hand who get separated by the tourists huddling out of the wind, hunched over a map and missing the angel standing over their shoulder behind the glass.

He hears their conversations in his head, winter songs of sorrow or beauty, clarity and confusion, cold or disappointment. He feels their hopefulness, their deficiencies, sense their impressiveness, their lack. No one measures up, no one can be all things. Nothing is as it should be; it is just the way of the world, broken and limping along, doing the best it can.

Broken.

And of course, he wants to write it all, write it better, cleaner, with an ending that resolves rather than this midway point of waiting, of flickering hope. He wants to write Kate but it's Nikki Heat, and he can't resolve Nikki if he wants another three-book contract from his publisher, and he can't pretend Kate would understand him even after she read it - if he ever did write it.

He doesn't even understand.

Together but not together is the loneliest place to be.

He sits there for too long, wanting, before he half-tuns in the chair, thinking he'll get to his feet and finally leave.

Only instead, he spots a twenty-something girl with a braid down her back sitting at the table behind him, casting the window furtive looks and scribbling in a notebook. Dark hair, darker than Kate's, but eyes so blue they're grey. Her eyebrows are raven's wings spread above her eyes; she's writing. She's writing and looking at him.

Oh. _Him._ She's doing a character sketch or writing a scene about him right this very moment. He is no different than the Nikki Heats out there on the sidewalk, the struggling humanity.

She blushes when he stares. She covers the page with a hand, pen twitching.

"Sorry," he says automatically, "but can I borrow some paper?" He's already reaching inside his coat pocket, the one close to his heart, and pulling out a pen. "I'm a writer. As well."

The girl blushes harder but flips to the back of her notebook and tears out a chunk of spiral bound pages. "Here."

He takes the pages. "Thank you."

She pierces him with a fierce scowl of eyebrows, doesn't answer. She bends her head back over her notebook, her green pen taking up the thread of her thoughts once more. He pretends he isn't fascinated, and he turns around.

He presses the pages flat to the table, resists the urge to pull off the spiral shreds and litter them across the wood. The pen is ready.

He lifts his head and watches the scene outside the window, lets his eyes trail over the diorama inside the cafe as well.

The words are slow to come.

He is still telling himself 'slow to come' when he caps his pen and folds the blank pages and pushes them all into his pocket. He leaves the girl in peace to wonder about him, about his solitary and wordless stop inside a cafe on one of the busiest shopping blocks this close to Christmas.

He deposits the brown mug at the dish-return station and steps back out into the cold night.

Just in time to see that flash of red coat once more, disappearing around the corner.

It's her.

He doesn't care what reality is, he lets himself believe it's her, and he follows after, hope struggling to rise, a wild goose chase that nevertheless will waste all the lonely hours of the night.

 **X**

When he walks into the loft much later, he can't help himself.

He checks all of the closets for her red coat.

The hall closet, the upstairs guest closets where half their seasonal wardrobe went into storage, and last of all, the bedroom closet. He's methodical, meticulous; he doesn't just scan the hanging clothes, he actually pages through them one by one.

He doesn't find it.

She took the red coat with her.

He writes for three hours until dawn, slogs into bed. He falls asleep and dreams troubled dreams, chasing a red coat through the streets, catching her as she falls and red blooms across her dress uniform, blood and wool. When he wakes sometime in the darkness and the quiet, he realizes-

waiting alone in the loft for Kate to come home isn't how to play this game.

It's not the history of their story, it's not how this works.

So what if he can't investigate right at her side, going through the names and the contacts and the gun-necessary parts? It hasn't stopped him before. There are other pieces to this puzzle, pieces she's too narrow-focused to see, pieces that Castle himself can pick up and handle and wonder about and make notes.

He was the one who had Kate go back through all of those items from her mother's desk, calendar and notes and photographs. And in one doing that - a task Kate had done time and time again _alone_ \- they had come up with their first big break: the alley where her mother died.

What else is Kate missing?

He knows he can be the one to find it.

They already _are_ partners.


	5. December 5

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 5**_

 **X**

 _You're in my blood like holy wine_

 **X**

Tonight, when Rick has outlined his investigation on the murder board in his PI's office, he goes to the Old Haunt to privately celebrate. To drink. Instead of alone in the dark. He brings his laptop like a prop, hopes to jot down notes as the ideas come to him, points of interest in this 'research' of his.

He walks in and they really do all know his name, shouts of _Mr Castle_ go up from the bartender and the regulars on their stools. He waves - more jaunty than he's felt in a while - and he sits at a booth near the middle of the action. He opens his laptop and he feigns writing while he drinks a few beers, instead typing in salient points like _who is helping LockSat now, where does the money come from,_ and _why does she trust him_.

He soaks up the atmosphere, this thriving business he rescued and revitalized, bot an icon of the neighborhood and a memorial to his past, and he feels better about himself and who he is, better about his purpose in the world, encouraged by all the good cheer flowing out from here.

Castle has been coming more often these past few months, with Kate gone and the loft empty, but he thinks he's balanced it enough that it doesn't look pathetic. Once a week, maybe twice. He sits at the table and he does write some, sketches ideas, builds characters for the new book, reminisces. He lets nostalgia have its way.

He used to write at this very spot in the old days, his first novel, energized by the flow of people and the conversation, the loud arguments and the louder victories, the flavor and camaraderie of those who congregated. He would stop and talk to a regular or he would be interrupted by a fellow patron, and they would spend an hour discussing in serious language the fate of the world. Politics or art or religion. Or the how much money the Yankees spent. Didn't matter, it was all fodder.

Nothing was off limits. Castle would turn back to his notebooks and he would work it all out, write everything down, sometimes the whole conversation word for word, sometimes the next scene of the book, pieces of his experience finding its way into his plot or characters.

It used to come like that, instant and fresh and confidently. Those early novels.

Derrick Storm never came like that. Maybe that's why he killed off the character.

Nikki Heat comes like that. From the beginning, she has always stepped life-sized onto the page. When he first followed Beckett and her team, he would be in agony at the Twelfth, itching for paper and pen, words desperate to get out. He would make notes on his phone but it was never enough; he would tear off scraps of paper or napkins or her incident report (only once, and never again, ear twisting), so that when he went home and unstuffed his pockets, he would find all the little scraps of their day together.

He took to grabbing her yellow legal pad and scrawling whole scenes around the notes she made, bits of too-good-to-pass-up dialogue written around time of death entries and questions about former lovers. At the end of the day, she would scowl fiercely at him and rip off his pages, shove them at his chest while telling him to get his own notepad.

He never did. And he was always too afraid to bring his laptop, certain she would relegate him to the desk in the corner, never to be allowed on the streets again. But it was painful, how painful it was, every day with her and the words wanting out, the scenes _breathing_ in front of him, how they took on a life of their own.

He was always afraid of missing something, either on the page or on the street, and he was so torn that first year, few years, between police work and the writing life.

He sits now in his booth in the middle of the action and feels something of that same liveliness, if not the same inspiration. The sense of bustle and flow, of the world waiting for his pen - or his keyboard. The next bestseller has a tantalizing formlessness before him.

It's curiously muted though. The world is muted without his muse.

He knows that partly it's the grey winter day, the promise of storms in the air, and the look that the bartender keeps throwing him, the look of a man under his boss's thumb. Maybe he has been sitting here too long, maybe he hasn't been as circumspect as he hoped.

Castle gets up from the table and tucks his laptop under his arm, heads for the office belowdecks. He tosses a little gesture to the floor manager, who nods his understanding, and Castle clatters down the stairs and into the office.

It still smells like secrets and speakeasies, bootlegged liquor and wood paneling. He sinks down to the leather couch that came with the place and tilts his head back, settling the laptop beside him and closing his eyes.

He likes it down here. He's been coming a lot. Too much, he knows that now. He should give it up, like the rest of the things he's been holding on to.

He can't.

It smells like her. Smells like Kate. Why is that? Is it memory association of all the after-hours they spent down here, the nights hanging out at the bar with the boys at case's end?

Smells exactly like-

"Hey, Rick."

His eyes flare open, a gasp startling out of him as his wife manifests in front of him. "Kate." And then when the apparition appears solid, "How'd you get in here?"

She gives a crooked smile and turns to look over her shoulder, gesturing to the partly open passageway. He installed an alarm on it, to keep the Old Haunt from being robbed, but of course Kate knows the code.

"I forgot you could do that." He grunts and shakes his head, holds his hand out to her before he can think better of it. "Sneaking out to meet your boyfriend?"

Her smile curls up. "Shouldn't be this fun, should it?" She takes his hand and sinks down to the couch beside him, moving his laptop. She's cold with the outside on her clothes, winter at her skin. "But it is fun."

"It is." He opens his arm to her, encircles loosely around her shoulders. He pretends they're picking up in the middle of a conversation from earlier, and maybe they are, maybe he's been narrating all day to her inside his head. "I've been trying to write. Thinking of writing anyway. That's why the laptop."

"Mm." Her body is adjusting to his, molding around his hard edges.

He doesn't ask where she's been the last few days, just grateful she's here. It's ingenious really, sneaking into the bar via the passageway, because it means no one knows they're meeting right now, no one knows she's here.

"Thinking of writing what?" she sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Remember when I used to write all over your yellow legal pad?"

"All over my case notes," she grumbles, but she presses her cheek against his shoulder like an embrace.

He's just grateful to have her, cold nose and all. "Mm, that. All over case notes. You have peculiar handwriting."

"You been drinking, Rick?" she murmurs, sinking into him fully now.

"Only some. Yeah. Couple of beers. Maybe a scotch. Or two." He drops his cheek to the top of her head. "If I'd known you were coming, I would've brought that wine you like so I wouldn't be drinking alone."

"Mm?"

"You know. _The_ wine."

She chuckles, smiling at his shoulder. "Don't need to drink with you to feel like this," she murmurs. "Already drunk on you, Castle. Can't keep myself away, can I?"

His heart expands, bursting pride, love, want, and he runs his thumb down her arm to her wrist, circling the bone until her hand opens. Their fingers lace.

And then she nuzzles her nose into his ear and tells him to lock the door.

 **X**

 _We can do this,_ she whispers at his mouth. _We can meet like this and no one will know. I want more of you._

Maybe he dreams it, that broken promise from her. Maybe her urgency is all a dream as well, but when he wakes alone on the couch in the downstairs office of the Old Haunt, he can still feel her warmth in his lap. Every breath in his lung is filled with her scent and the winter cold he chased from her skin.

He lifts his head and sits up with a groan, rubbing his mouth as his hangover hits him. He drank too much. It's late - early now - and he'll have to set the alarm and close up, go home, sleep away the morning.

Castle presses his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets until he sees stars, drops his hand and waits for his vision to clear.

When it does, and his office comes into view, his skin prickles at the sight before him. His hand jerks forward and snatches the lone square of green napkin, the kind they stock down here for serving drinks at the bar.

In black pen on the back, she's written _let me know when you're thirsty. you never need to drink alone._

 **X**


	6. December 6

**Wintersong**

* * *

 **December 6**

 **X**

 _from me to you_

 **X**

Rick Castle is working on a skiptrace at his desk in the PI office when his daughter calls. He answers distractedly, narrowing his eyes at the screen of the laptop, huffing a frustrated breath when the map offers him no help.

After last night's encounter, he's inclined to leave well enough alone, ditch his plan to 'help' her investigation with a little digging of his own. He's trying very hard to only work his PI cases, to give it time. Give Kate time.

She knows how to play him, doesn't she? She knows exactly how much will tide him over, just how much of herself to give him so that he's appeased.

Those are unkind thoughts after the way she touched him last night, all that desperation and longing, the way she cried his name against his neck-

"Dad?"

Castle startles, nearly drops his phone. Daydreaming of her again. "Yes, pumpkin, I'm here," he says, clearing his throat. "Working on this job we got from the bail bondsman."

"Right. Well. You might want to get over here."

"Did you find him?" he gasps.

She laughs. "No, Dad, for once I didn't solve one of your cases before you. No, I'm at the loft. You should get over here."

"Why? What's happened?"

"It's a jungle in here," she answers cryptically.

 **X**

The arrival at his loft coincides with a delivery van pulling up to the curb and blocking in the taxi. He pays the cabbie, curious, and watches the delivery driver open up the back door and pull out a massive arrangement of exotic red flowers.

Addressing the doorman, the driver announces, "Another one for Mr. Richard Castle-"

"Uh, that's me," he says, stepping up. Another one?

He signs for the large bouquet of red mokara orchids in their black bowl, and he carries them inside the lobby and towards the elevator. The doorman shakes his head and says nothing, but Rick catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye, turns in time to see another delivery van double-parking at the street.

He stops, astonished, and has to sign for another arrangement, this one of pale white lilies with faintly purple tips, his arms now full. He vaguely registers the delivery man swearing at a group who almost knock him over, the flash of a camera - tourists maybe? - but Castle's face is obscured by greenery. The doorman helps him inside and pushes the call button, something said under his breath about _all day long._

When Castle gets to his loft, Alexis is already there with the door open. "More?" she cries. "There's not _space_ for them all."

 _There isn't space_.

His loft is overflowing with bouquets, from exotic to ordinary, broad-leafed to bare, a flare of reds, greens, and whites in holiday colors. Plaid bows, bowls, milk glass, single-stem vases, planters, baskets, moss window boxes all bursting with delicate blossoms.

Flowers.

"Dad. What did you _do_?"

"Nothing," he protests, unsticking his feet to wander through the living room. He places the orchids on the piano with five others, and then he has to turn around to find a spot for the lilies. The counter is filled, the table behind the couch is burgeoning, the chairs have delicate roses nestled in their deep seats.

"Kate is going to be so jealous - or mad," his daughter tells him. "And not that someone is giving you flowers. But all these deliveries have attracted attention - didn't you see them downstairs? Photographers. Kate is going to find out. Whatever you did - _who_ ever-"

"What?" He gives Alexis a helpless look. "Aren't they from Kate?"

She plucks a card from the nearest bouquet - he hadn't noticed the tiny white square - and she reads out loud. "Always a fan. StormMe78." Alexis lifts an eyebrow. "Storm - me - that's pretty lame. I looked it up, Dad. It's a fan from the message boards."

His lips spread into a wide smile. "It's Kate."

"Dad? Did you not hear me? I said-"

"It's Kate," he tells her. _Always a fan_. "I teased her once about being on the message boards, about knowing the release date for the book ahead of the general public. It's Kate."

And she's StormMe78? _Storm me. Riiight._

He knows what he'll be doing tonight - scouring the message boards for her comments.

 **X**

On the thread for the release of the latest Storm graphic novel, StormMe78 has posted one message, and it looks as if it's in reply to another user. Only Castle knows better. It's addressed to him.

 _Hope to see you at the signing._

That's December 9th. His signing is Wednesday of this very week.

 _It's a date._

 **X**


	7. December 7

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 7_**

 ** _X_**

 _you're the present I long to see_

 **X**

Castle wakes disoriented, heavy and sinking into the mattress, one arm outflung, on his stomach. Nothing is right.

He lies there dumbly for a moment before his brain registers the quiet of the loft, the absolute stillness. The scent of flowers is redolent, like drizzled honey. He woke before his alarm again, woke with a dream of her on his tongue like a taste.

He closes his eyes and resolves himself to another day, uses sheer force of will to put his feet out of bed and rise.

The orchids on the nightstand are listing towards the sun, and now so is he. Bleary-eyed and out of sorts, needing something to orient around. Someone.

Castle shuffles into the bathroom on numbed feet, clumsy from a hard sleep and resisting his efforts to acclimate. His morning ablutions are out of joint. He stops halfway through brushing his teeth to wash his hands and then has to go back and do it again when he realizes he hasn't gone to the bathroom. And for some reason, he winds up carrying the toothbrush to the shower and stepping under the spray with it, mindless.

As if he's never done any of this before. Stranger in a strange land.

He knows and he's trying not to know. He knows what has to be done - what he has to do - and a loft filled with flowers was a beautiful mask, but the underlying problem still remains.

He can't leave Kate out there alone - no matter what she says. Vikram is no partner; Vikram won't save her life at the risk of his own. Vikram has already proved to be an idiot, telling Kate not to talk to him, not to tell him the truth. _Castle_ for sure doesn't trust Vikram.

Even if Kate doesn't want his help, he can't do nothing. She's managed to distract him from his own investigation with her little hide-and-seek these last few days, but he won't be deterred.

She needs back-up. She needs her partner.

Castle chucks his toothbrush towards the sink and steps back under the shower spray. He scrubs his scalp vigorously, waking himself up.

And now that his mind is on it, he thinks he might have another problem. He saw a photographer tagging him yesterday, showing up ahead of him at spots Castle usually frequents - coffee shop, the bodega with those cream-filled knock-off cronuts, the front door of the publisher's office. He can't remember if there's a thing Paula called to warn him about but which he brushed off or ignored the call. He isn't keeping track of certain parts of his life any longer; he's obsessed with Kate - together but not together - and he's let other things slide.

He blamed her for secretly liking to be broken, for needing the obsession, but now he wonders about himself.

Maybe he loves her precisely for all that complicated, purpose-filled obsession.

 **X**

It's a silent walk to the subway station this Monday, like he's wrapped in a particularly dense cloud that no sounds penetrate. He's worrying over his own thoughts like a pebble smoothed by his fingers, and it has the surreal effect of isolating him from the world.

He rides the line to his private investigator's office, one hand gripped around the bar, staring into the immediate distance. The curve of the orange seat and the bright metal washed by the compact fluorescent lights give the whole car a sense of the dawn inside, a new day, a fresh slate.

When he navigates the subway platform and rides the escalator up to the world, he realizes there's a reason for all that blue-tinged atmosphere.

Dawn has only now cracked open the sky. He has no idea when he woke, how long it took to make his sacrifices to the day, but clearly the day has only just begun. He feels the weight of each limn of light, as if he alone carries the burden of the sun in its path, pushing it along its arc.

It's not even _day_ yet; it's still early-dark, still almost yesterday's night. He can't remember the last time he slept regularly, can't remember the last time he slept well enough that his alarm had to wake him. He's been restless, and it must be dreams, just as they surfaced when he began remembering his missing time.

He finds himself in his PI building and he turns his back on the windows, thinking without thinking about the tumbler of scotch and the thin blanket he can pull over himself on the couch in his office. Thinking without realizing how he's planning to waste the hours until the sun is fully bidden from the earth.

When he shuffles inside his office, it too is deserted, as it should be at this hour. Blank, formless, as if waiting for someone of substance to take shape around - and that's not him.

Castle hangs his coat on the coat rack, an odd spark of longing for a fedora to hang above it, and he moves past his desk to the secret room. He pulls the right books in the shelf and the door swings open and allows him entry.

The lighting in here is muted blues, the undertone one of secrets and techno-geeks. But he heads for the low-lying couch and sinks down, hands propped on his knees, waiting for a decision to be made - exhaustion or curiosity. Investigate behind his wife's back or leave it alone for now.

He should be waking up his laptop and beginning this investigation. And while it's necessary that Beckett not do this alone, he knows this will cross a line. She specifically told him not to. But she needs back-up. She needs her partner, and he wouldn't be the man she married if he leaves her alone to this.

Instead of taking up his laptop, his eyes catch on the shelf of cool toys across from him, all the ancient weapons and modern conveniences he had the contractors put into this place, and he stands up.

He picks up the two-way walkie talkies he bought for Alexis after Paris, when they were both stumbling up or down the stairs in the middle of the night just to check that one or the other of them was still here, still alive, still safe.

They're Motorolas that work up to one hundred miles, though he and Alexis tested them one day and they could still hear each other at one hundred and twenty. The signal strength was bad, but it's nice to know their true limit. He turns them over in his hands and thinks about what he's been half-heartedly doing, about what's really beneath the surface.

Kate is running scared, caught between wanting him and wanting to keep him safe, and all he's done is wait. Sit and wait, and cross lines she made him promise not to cross. Look what happened in DC when he snooped in her classified case, how it unraveled faster than he could hang on to it, how it nearly killed him.

She has _reason_ to believe he'll get hurt; she knows him and how he gracelessly stumbles through the worst danger.

He doesn't have to do that.

He doesn't have to cross those lines. He can return the tracking device he bought online, or well, it might come in handy for the PI firm. He can simply expense it. But. He _doesn't_ have to plant it on her new police cruiser and follow her every movement just to back her up. He can be her partner in crime in other ways.

He's not waiting around, but he's not going to be stupid either. He will not get anyone hurt.

Castle takes the box and carefully repacks the walkie talkies, slides them under his arm, and he heads out to find a messenger service open at this hour.

She thinks she's alone, but she's not alone. Even if she _wants_ to be alone in this, to save him, she's not. She's not.

She still has him.

He wants only to tether himself to her, even if it is by one small radio, one voice over the air, talking just to imagine her ears are listening.

 **X**

It's only seven, but it's full dark when she leaves her meeting with Vikram. The traffic is close-packed, and she drives half-attending, wishing she were home and realizing that home feels like the precinct these days.

That's a desperately sad thought.

Stopped at a red light, her eyes are drawn to Manhattan's skyline, the blur of lights and skyscrapers with their red and green and blue illuminations. Garland on the nearby bank, over-sized holly berries hanging from the lamp posts, twinkling lights strung in the windows of the apartments above. The weather report on her phone is predicting a snowstorm upstate, and she has to go over emergency preparedness for tomorrow morning's meeting, as if over the weekend, the city embraced the holidays, decorations hung where yesterday there were none, the temperature falling once more.

The heater in the car is drying out her lips, and she reaches over to adjust it, knock it back down a few notches. It's hard to get right, with the chilled wind outside the window, and her fingers are still fragile with cold, but the hot air is making her skin tight.

Everything's hard to get right. From her captaincy to the LockSat case, her marriage and her priorities - it's harder than she expected. She hopes what she's doing with Castle isn't as stupid and risky and dangerous as it feels. She hopes she's encouraging, but not too encouraging. He can't be right beside her for this one, not when LockSat has killed her whole former AG team for a simple query search. And yet she still wants him right beside her.

An impossible balance.

By the time she steps onto the elevator at the Twelfth, the evening has pressed its cold fingers deep into her bones. She doesn't feel good about any of this, the together but not together, how she shows up in secret for an hour, a night, but not for any of the day-by-day hard stuff. And with every answer she follows to more questions, every dead end and frustrating lack of evidence, every time Vikram texts to say he has another lead that later goes up in smoke - she doesn't feel good about that either.

How long can it possibly go on? Her, him, the investigation.

With her fingers curled around her second cup of coffee for the night, she strides off the elevator and heads for her office, waving away the boys, who really ought to have gone home an hour ago. She slips inside the glass-encircled room, carefully places her bag on the floor, and she sinks down to the couch with the to-go cup against her sternum.

She watches the night outside her office windows, the blank facade of the buildings across the street, the faceless and dark glass, the row after row of offices opposite her own. Most of the workday has closed down the neighboring buildings, but there are lights on for the cleaning crews, and here and there little touches of the holiday season. A tiny Charlie Brown tree, a window with a star, an LED candle still burning.

It's somehow less isolating, seeing those nods to the general atmosphere of peace and goodwill, as if the time of year can somehow keep people from hurting each other, as if the day is magic enough to heal the broken.

But it's an illusion, and she has work to do to make that real.

Kate struggles up from the tempting couch, moves to her desk, laying her phone on top of her burgeoning inbox, setting her coffee on the coaster.

And then she freezes.

A box rests on the blotter before her.

She takes half a beat to assess the package, consumed with wild and speculative thoughts, half-worked theories and fears, before she realizes.

Castle.

It's not wrapped, but it is a white gift box, sturdy, probably delivered by a service. A return gesture for the flowers she sent to the loft. She glances up to the window overlooking the bullpen and there are Ryan and Esposito, both of them looking guilty but unrepentant, Espo scowling and hunching his shoulders, Ryan giving her a stupid thumbs up.

So they let Castle in, or they signed for the delivery, however that worked.

She's relieved it's only just him. Not something - worse. Worse would mean - the worst.

Kate slides the top off the box, noting the purple curled grass that springs up around a dark object. Heavy, by the way it sinks into the stuffing and disappears.

She reaches in and closes her hand around some kind of small speaker, puzzled until she pulls it free.

A walkie talkie. One. One end of a walkie talkie and no doubt Castle has the other. A card has drifted free to her desk and she flips it over: _let me know when you're thirsty._

Her lips tug. She flips it on and presses her thumb to the call button and lets it beep as it receives, lets it faintly hiss as it waits for her. But all she can do is breathe.

She releases the button, bowing her head over the device, but when the speaker crackles, she startles, stunned to hear movement on the other end.

No voice, no words, no sound really. Only silence.

But the breathing kind.

The kind where she feels another human being awake with her, waiting.

She closes her eyes and presses her hand to her face, listening to the white noise of him breathing, alive, on the other end.

Always at her side, even when she tries so hard to save him.

 **X**


	8. December 8

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 8th**_

 **X**

 _all that's gone can reappear_

 **X**

It's not that he wakes early.

He's just up.

He has the walkie talkie on his desk but it's been silent since last night, (heh, _silent night_ ) while he stayed up doing google searches down an endless black hole, one thing after another, trying not to hit on anything sensitive. He propped himself up in the armchair, trying to get comfortable enough to actually be drowsy, to send himself to bed, but it never happened. He's awake to see the sliver of the moon sink below the level of the building across the street, awake to see the fruitless results of his searching.

He is no closer to the truth than he was before.

He's not investigating LockSat or the drugs; he's not poking his nose into the slaying of her AG team or even the intriguing partners from Iconic Cruise Lines.

He's been digging into Vikram.

And he's got _nothing_. Only the stuff planted by LockSat back in the beginning, the stuff Kate assured him wasn't true. But what _is_ true, he still can't discover.

Not a date of birth, not a high school graduation, nothing. Vikram is a ghost.

His head tilts back against his armchair and he closes his eyes, debates going to bed at four in the morning or toughing it out and going into his PI office.

He shouldn't, but he needs Hayley's help on this one. He needs to be absolutely certain he's not leaving a trail for others to follow, both Vikram and LockSat, and Hayley is his only recourse. He could call one of his various contacts in the CIA, the FBI, even that guy from the NSA, but as Kate warned him, whom can he really trust?

Time to go into the office and do this right.

He'll need a _massive_ amount of coffee to make it through.

Oh. Coffee.

Coffee is better than keeping tabs on a wife who explicitly asked him not to keep tabs. Coffee says _good morning, smile for me_ rather than _I'm investigating your so-called partner._

And it's early enough that he can still abide by her request for _not together_ and yet make his presence felt.

Castle hauls himself to his feet, closing the unhelpful laptop and placing it on the chair. He hustles out of his office and into the living room, heads for the kitchen. He'll make the good stuff with the French press, just how she loves it, the way she already told him she was missing. Plus, he has a travel mug he bought for her birthday and never could give to her, something dorky he made on a photo website. It's too perfect.

It feels more natural to be chasing after her than following her, to be reminding her rather than investigating her. This is how he has her back: persistence.

He's sure to beat her to the precinct. She'll never even see him. She'll keep her safety net of space.

But he'll still be with her.

 **X**

When he puts his hand to the door knob of her office, he's faintly surprised she left it unlocked. He opens it quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself from the handful working the Delta shift, and he slips inside her private office.

He comes to a halt, arrested by the sight. Kate Beckett is asleep on the leather couch, curled on her uninjured side, her back to the room. Trusting an unlocked door and the penetrable security of the Twelfth.

He got in, with a little help from a buddy of LT's, and yet she sleeps like a child.

His heart tumbles, and he stands just inside the doorway, unable to breathe.

She must be exhausted. Running around trying to do multiple jobs: appease his immature pouting, be accessible to the DA, attend meetings at 1PP, and work with Vikram on a case that has blown up their lives.

Her leather satchel is propped up on the floor by the head of the couch like she was just about to leave but she never made it home.

 _Never made it home._

No, she hasn't made it home.

He still doesn't know where she's sleeping, and he hopes it's not here. He won't look into it, won't step on her toes, but he thinks it's not too much to ask that he knows where his wife is sleeping these days. Cover or no cover.

But not right now.

Castle finally takes a breath and turns softly for her desk, putting the travel mug front and center on her blotter so that she'll see it.

He's just turning back when he notices the satchel's telltale bulge in the front pocket. He crouches down and lifts the flap, knowing what he'll see, what he didn't see on the desk itself, and there it is.

She's slipped the walkie talkie into her bag to take back to her place. Wherever her place is. She's taking him with her.

He doesn't wake her. But he leans in over her and so lightly kisses her cheek.

So lightly.

 **X**

When Castle gets back to the loft, he moves immediately for his office.

He takes the walkie talkie off his desk and depresses the talk button, knowing that opening the channel will sound loudly on her end and wake her.

Wake her before the boys can come in to work and see their captain sleeping in her office.

Five minutes later, just as he is finally getting into bed himself, he hears the walkie talkie click twice as if in _thank you_ _._

 **X**

It's only when she's washing out the travel mug that she sees what he's done.

The outside is a plain navy blue, no name, no identifying marks, but on the inside-

Pictures of them printed between the two layers of insulation, photos from their wedding, from years ago, from his phone that night after the rain. All of the best ones, but only visible to her when she opens the mug.

Only _she_ can see them.

Only she knows.


	9. December 9

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 9**_

 **X**

 _between your love and mine_

 **X**

He expects her all afternoon.

Especially because of the walkie talkie clicks this morning when he took his first sips of coffee, and her quiet, _I love you_ when he couldn't help calling her name over the line. _Love you too_ and the quiet together as they drank coffee in separate rooms, separate places, but together in the static of the open channel.

He expects her to be here.

He looks for her in the line queuing up past his table at Comicadia, searches the milling customers for her face, lifts his eyes to each new fan hoping it will be her, his graphic novel pressed to her chest.

But it's never her.

He signs his name in a flourish with a silver Sharpie, the permanent marker glistening for a moment on the black title page. He inks _for Margie, may the road rise to meet you_ or _to Matt, rock on_ because he can't remember the blurb his agent told him to use for this release, and everything he does think of sounds trite and complicated and unoriginal.

He avoids the use of the word 'always' for reasons that seem evident, but which cramp his ability to be creative. _May you always-_ no, never, only for her.

At the two hour mark, which should be the end of the signing but isn't - the line reaches on - he yields to temptation. He turns on his phone and opens the Find my Phone app, can't keep himself from checking up on her. He thought she would be here; he really did. He just wants to see where she is if not here.

Oh. The Twelfth.

He should have known. She's the captain of the whole precinct; of course she's stuck at work. She would be even if together was more together than not.

He feels a little giddy, and lot guilty, for having broken that little unspoken rule of healthy relationships, for having crossed that line, but he can't stop himself now that he has. He checks the app every ten minutes at first, just an update, see if she's heading his way, if she'll make it. He tells himself it's only to manage his expectations, to keep himself from being disappointed when she doesn't show, but he knows the truth.

It's infinitely reassuring to know where she is - and that she's only at work.

Not... other places, other people. Not that secret life he's not allowed inside of.

Meredith's infidelity still lingers, like a high water mark inside him, a stain from a ravaging flash flood. He didn't realize how deeply it's stained him until this moment.

She's just at the Twelfth.

(Or her phone is.)

"Mr. Castle? So cool to meet you."

He lifts his head and gives as bright a smile as possible, returns to his own job. Another mindless phrase inscribed inside his graphic novel, another flustered nineteen year old kid. It crosses his mind, in the way story details always do, that this could be the kid whose mother is murdered in an alley, whose life is forever altered, choices made, the great Before and After. It could happen to any of their smiling faces, eager hands; it could have been Kate here, waiting for him to sign a book, and him just as uninterested and mindless.

The thought of which bolsters him, pushes a more genuine smile to his face.

He signs his name and the silver marker flares in the overhead fluorescents, and when he looks up to hand it back to the guy, he sees outside the window the faint white specks dancing in the street lamp.

Spitting snow.

It won't stick. The streets will only be damp and grey-tinged, but it's still something of a wonder.

 **X**

His head bows forward, his hands frozen into claws around the icy chains of the swing. He's not sure what he's still doing here, why he left Comicadia only to wander the streets until he arrived at this place. The playground where so many things began.

The snow is still coming down, quiet, little rough touches like a cat's tongue. He pushes off with his feet and lets the swing drag him back, expanding his lungs in the cold air, watching the dizzy spit of snow.

When Kate appears, it's as if she materializes out of thin air, her body wrapped in a sleek peacoat, black skinny pants that leave nothing to the imagination, boots that make her tall. Her hands are in her pockets, standing before him just outside of the range of his slow metronome.

She watches him for a few seconds, and he watches her, saying nothing. He waits for her to come to him.

When the swing reaches the fullness of its lazy extension, she leans forward and quickly catches him by the metal chains. The force of his momentum drags her a little forward, stumbling, their heads bumping until she can stop the swing.

They make eye contact. Her hair is beautiful and falling around her face, her lips parted as she breathes in the winter air. His own chest is tight at just the nearness of her.

"You weren't there," he croaks out.

She tilts her head, lifting an eyebrow.

His breath puffs in the air. "Were you?"

"I watched you," she murmurs then. "From a distance. I said I'd see you. You didn't see me?"

His breath crashes through his lungs. He didn't realize what it meant to him, didn't realize just how much import he put on her being at his signing. "No. I didn't."

"Good. Then no one else did either."

She's not smiling, but he thinks he is.

"That's my swing," she says softly.

Oh, he's sitting in her spot.

She releases the chains, but his feet catch him, keep him there with her. He stands up, letting the swing go, and he dares to plant his hands on her hips, framing her here.

She doesn't dislodge him; she doesn't duck his touch. His claim.

"Your swing?" he says, forcing his tone to be light. "I don't see your name on it."

Her eyelashes are thick, as if moisture has met the frozen temperatures and turned them to icicles. She blinks slowly and draws her hands up to his elbows, holds him there. As if she doesn't want him letting go.

"My name _is_ on it," she insists. "Practically."

He's about to shake his head, tease her a little more, just to prolong the conversation - the connection - as ridiculous and meaningless as it is, when an idea sparks.

He still has the permanent marker in the inside pocket of his coat from the book signing, and he reaches in to pull it out. Kate tilts her head, studying him, putting it together, but instead of chastising him, her cheeks are pinking.

"Of course. You just happen to have a silver Sharpie."

He smiles. "Graphic novels are filled with a lot of black space. Silver is the only thing that shows up."

Her lips quirk, her cheeks still that lovely pink.

"Come on, Kate," he says, turning for the swing. He strides forward and catches the black rubber seat, flips it over.

She's right at his side, pressed close, and he wishes there weren't so many thick layers between them.

He uncaps the marker, wipes at a streak where snow has fallen.

"It will rub off," she says. "Not even a Sharpie lasts forever." She sounds regretful.

"A little, it will," he sighs. "But not all the way." He's done enough graffitiing of public places in his misspent youth. "And we'll know it's here. You and me."

He steadies the swing in one palm, pushing it as flat as he can with his other fist, the Sharpie in hand. He starts the long column of the first letter, watching the silver dry on the seat.

Kate slides her arm through his and lays her chin on the top of his shoulder, her body draped at his back and side.

He stutters only a moment, and then he writes her name on the bottom of the black swing in silver permanent marker.

"Me next," she breathes at his ear. Is she _simpering?_ "I want your autograph, Mr. Castle. All over. I'm so thirsty."

"Mixed metaphors aside," he rumbles, flashing a look her way, "the Old Haunt it is."

 **X**


	10. December 10

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 10**_

 **X**

 _You said you needed me_

 **X**

Castle rips open the bubble mailer first thing, recognizing her script on the address line. He peels back the sticky and slides out the paper-wrapped flat rectangle. When he scratches at the tape, the brown paper rips, so he goes ahead and tears the rest of it away.

And laughs.

She's framed one of his scenes from her yellow legal pad, a confusion of dialogue hastily scribbled around case notes. It's one of the first serious conversations between Nikki and Rook, and in between those lines are Beckett's detective notes on her interview with Clay Sloan, the detective turned New Jersey sheriff who hadn't investigated the disappearance of Melanie Cavanaugh five years before that.

How coldly angry Beckett was that day, but how calmly she handled the former detective. Her notes range the yellow notepaper, the little tick marks she made when Sloan gave her an answer, and then the further questions they caused. She was using a confident blue pen at that time, a pen that he gave her, if he remembers correctly, and each of her points are laid out neatly:

 _History of drug use and disappearing.  
_ _Husband waited over twenty-four hours to report missing.  
_ _Local talk.  
_ _Best friend, Wyler.  
_ _Storage company.  
_ _Report: last seen, Philadelphia with ex-bf, known meth dealer._

And then, between those, the bare essentials of the first conversation that Rook and Nikki have together that's about more than the case.

Nikki: _I really wanted to transfer to Theater...  
_ Rook: _You're going to have to help me with this. How did you go from that to becoming a police detective?  
_ N: _Not such a huge leap. Tell me what I do isn't part acting, part storytelling.  
_ R: _True. But that's the what. I'm curious about the why.  
_ N: _It's personal.  
_ R: _Personal. Is that code for 'because of a guy'?  
_ N: _Rook, knowing what you know about me, do you think I would make a choice like that for a guy?... Would you change what you do for a woman?  
_ R: _I can't answer that, in a vacuum, I can't see it, but for the right woman? I'd like to think I'd do just about anything._

Nikki Heat might only be a character based on Kate Beckett, and Jameson Rook a ruggedly handsome ploy to write the scenes and conversations he wanted to see and have - including page 105 - but it's also more than that.

This book was the most honest he could be at the time, and the books are still where he works out all the subtleties. In the novel, he knows why Nikki Heat does what she does, makes the choices she makes, and it's easy for Jameson Rook to forgive her.

For the right woman, he would do just about anything.

Castle lifts the framed yellow paper with its confluence of him and her, and he holds it up against the wall in his office. It will be perfect right there.

A shriek comes from the kitchen and he startles, nearly dropping the frame.

"Dad!"Alexis comes running through the living room and into his office, clutching the newspaper against her chest, eyes wide. "Dad."

"What?"

"Look. Look what they're saying about you!"

Castle takes the newspaper she thrusts his direction, and he opens the fold only to see a blurry shot of his head, his face hidden by a large spray of red flowers. The blurb underneath has him sinking down to the top of his desk.

 _Author Rick Castle De-Flowered?_

"What a lame headline," he mutters, flipping open the gossip section to read the article inside. Skimming the poorly-crafted lines, his heart drops.

"Dad, it says you're having an _affair_."

It does. It says he's being seduced by another woman. And the inside article shows another photograph, this one taken outside on the sidewalk when the first bouquets must have started showing up. Five delivery vans, all of them unloading flowers, and the article speculating that a rich debutante must be wooing him away from his too-busy captain wife.

He swallows hard.

"Dad. Wait. _Are you_?"

"No," he exclaims. "You can't really believe that. I told you it was Kate. I told you that it's a ploy for - for a case." He hasn't breathed a word of LockSat to his family; Kate insisted they couldn't put anyone else in danger.

Alexis frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. "How long exactly is this ploy supposed to last?"

He sighs and tosses the newspaper to his desk. "I need to call Kate."

But he can't. He can't call Kate. They're not supposed to be together.

Still, maybe he can get to her at the Twelfth before she reads the paper.

 **X**

When he steps off the elevator and into the bullpen, the entire floor turns his direction, cold stares and hard looks.

He jerks to a halt. "It's not _true_." His heart is pounding at their immediate distrust, their accusatory eyes. "I wouldn't. I'm trying to win her _back."_

Kate comes out of her office, heading straight for him, a look of panic in her eyes.

"It's not true," he continues. "They're not from another woman-"

Kate reaches him. "Castle, no-"

"They're from _Alexis_ ," he tells them all. "She's trying to cheer me up. Because of-" He looks over at her and her whole body slumps in relief. He turns back to the crowd of uniforms and detectives. "Shame on you. All of you. For thinking I would _ever._ Don't you know me?"

"I didn't think that of you." Kate tightens her hand around his bicep and tugs. "Not once." She nods her head towards her office. "Come on, Rick. Come with me."

He turns reluctantly and follows her, lets her lead him into her office. Once inside, her hand drifts down his arm and plays with his fingers.

"Alexis, huh?"

He swallows and bobs his head. "Best I could come up with on short notice. You saw the paper?"

Her eyes look sad. "I saw."

"I didn't do that-"

"No, I know," she says, fingers meddling with his thumb and around his knuckles. "It's probably a good thing? Feeds our narrative."

He nods, his throat dry with the way she plays with his hand. Out of view of the bullpen who are, to a man, looking in on them.

"I guess so," he says. "For the story we're trying to sell."

"Just for the story." Her fingers tighten around his. "It's not - ruined, is it?"

"What?" he blurts out. "Nothing's ruined, we're not ruined-"

"I mean the flowers," she says quietly.

His grin splits his face. Not that he didn't already know it was her, but the way she purses her lips and glances away from him, the almost shyness in her eyes. "Flowers are still strewn all around the loft, Kate. No. Not ruined. And I got your gift this morning."

She grins back, crooked and beautiful. "Yeah? I found it when I moved out of my apartment. I kept a whole stack of them."

"Wow. Fangirl much?"

"Shut up."

He flips his hand in hers, rubbing his thumb across the webbing at her thumb. "I wish I could kiss you."

"Maybe you should," she breathes.

"That doesn't feed the narrative."

"But it would leave them guessing." Her fingers twine with his and play, caressing the inside of his wrist. "And I really want to kiss you back."

"Dangerous," he murmurs, but he leans in and touches his lips to hers.

 **X**


	11. December 11

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 11**_

 **X**

 _despite the ice and snow_

 **X**

Castle intercepts her under the bridge inside Central Park, the one nearest the Met - and the Twelfth's latest drug sweep. As the captain, she's been walking their section of the park with the team that performs these sweeps, and since it's not anyone Castle knows from Homicide - mostly guys from Vice and the uniforms - he has no trouble catching the back of her coat and pulling her into the darkness.

"Rick," she chides, but her lips are already ghosting his. Her kiss is vanilla-sweet and a little dirty, and when they break apart, she clutches his lapels and stares at his mouth.

"Is that my rebuke? Maybe I should disobey you more often," he breathes at her open mouth. Their second kiss is frantic like a cloudburst, too much teeth and not enough lips, but she jerks away from him when he tries to soften.

"No, no," she says, actually shaking her head as if to remind herself too. "Can't. Not in public."

"I just wanted to see you. I don't even know where you sleep, Kate."

"A stupid motel," she mutters, but her fingers are touching her lips. Gloves, she's wearing gloves, so she can't feel much, but the look in her eyes makes his heart race. "I miss you. I miss sleeping with you, your heat at my back."

"You hate when I crowd you," he reminds her.

"I do. But - just the dip in the mattress where you are and-"

"My mattress is too expensive to _dip_." He tugs her hips into his. "It better not be dipping. I paid good money for it to pass the bowling ball and glass of wine test-"

She shuts him up with another fierce kiss, this one more tongue than anything else, and he clutches the back of her coat and takes it, knowing he can't have it forever.

Somehow that makes it better. Not just illicit, but more precious. (Does he love her more like this? He's afraid sometimes that he does, that the _chase_ is what enthralls him. That maybe she was right when she said he takes her for granted.)

When she pulls away, this time he feels more gracious. "Old Haunt?" he says, wanting more than teeth and tongue. He toys with the belt of her coat, but at that moment, they both hear her name being called. _Captain Beckett?_

She steps back, but her hand is slow to leave his chest, her fingers catching the hole for the button on his coat, tugging, even as her eyes drift. "Maybe this afternoon...?"

He will spend all _day_ at the Old Haunt if she thinks she has time.

Kate shivers and shakes her head, once, emphatically. "I can't. I have a thing - a lead. There might be a lead, and I'm driving up to check." She closes her eyes. "Pretend you didn't hear that. Don't follow me, Castle."

"I _want_ to hear that," he growled. "Let me drive up with you. You need back-up on this-"

"It's not that kind of lead. Just interviews with a couple of sanitation workers. Managers."

"Kate," he whines.

"I'll call you when it's time to do surveillance," she promises, like it's a joke.

"Please do. _Do_ ," he insists. He hates stake-outs. "If you don't start looping me in, Kate, I'm going to be forced to-"

"You can't," she hisses. "Castle. Don't you _dare_ -"

"You have to go," he says instead, pushing her away from him, out of the shadows so that she's now in full view of the uniforms sweeping Central Park. One calls out to her again, that kind of _oh there you are_ relief that makes Beckett grimace at him.

"This isn't over," she threatens.

"Better not be."

Her face changes, like she wants to come back for one more kiss, but he slips away, heading for the other side of the tunnel. He can hear her heels on the stone as she leaves, and he has to count the steps under his breath to avoid dwelling on how easy it is for her to leave him.

And for him to leave her.

 **X**

He spends his afternoon investigating Vikram.

Hayley has set up at his desk in the PI office, but that's just fine so long as she's using her backdoors and black boxes and proxy servers. (She says there is a Google user group which posts new, randomly-generated proxies every single day.) All that hacker stuff he can't fathom, but he thinks it looks so very cool. She's doing the deep background herself, but she does toss his way pieces of data that he can search for using the second brand-new laptop in the office.

None of the items she gives him are strong enough to lead back directly to Vikram. In fact, he has no clue at all what they have to do with Vikram, and Hayley doesn't stop long enough to explain. (She might be throwing him a bone, he realizes; she might be making it up so that he feels useful.) It's strangely like doing backstory on a character when it's in the primordial stages - the name is mere shape of the sounds and not yet finalized, the parents have occupations and set tragedies, but the main character has no flesh - Castle can see right through him.

All these disparate pieces seem like one-offs, like they have no connection whatsoever, but each one sends Hayley into a shushing-don't-even-look-at-me tizzy, and he has to sit on his hands and be good until she gives him something else to try.

He feels like he's twiddling his thumbs, like he's taking up precious time and energy and space that ought to be used elsewhere. He's _watching_ , not actually helping, and the little facts she sends his way feel more like appeasement than real detective work.

But her computer and her tech-savvy mean that she's the only one who can do this kind of thing and keep them off the radar. He can't even _wikipedia_ the origin of Vikram's name without it being a footprint leading back to what his wife is doing (as he finds out soon enough when Hayley slams his laptop shut on his fingers.

Which, by the way, Vikram means _valorous, one who is wise, brave, strong and victorious,_ she calls out to him later. He scoffs and pretends he didn't hear her. Brave and strong? No way. Vikram might be brave and strong, but Richard is the brave _king_. So there.)

"Come on," he sighs, slumping into the chair that's supposed to be for clients. Hayley has taken over his desk again. "Just give me something here."

"Fine, fine. I found this phrase, beta level city, and then another one related to that - sufficiency level city. Just - google it, Richard."

Great, now she's picking up his mother's habit of speaking.

But he does, actually, just google it. He skims the related wikipedia entry to garner key words, and then he returns to his main search with his new terms. Global city, alpha cities, and something called the Global World Consortium. When _that_ leads him to the distinction made for Panama City at beta level - linking moderate economic regions into the world economy - Hayley freezes.

Her eyes grow wide.

"Panama City," he muses aloud, thinking back. "Kate said that the sanitation truck driver-"

"Was from Panama," Hayley winced. "This could look really bad. This could have the appearance of us stumbling right into their investigation."

"Oh, no. I did a _google_ search," he groaned. "I wikipedia'd it. Hayley."

"I didn't know," she protested. "I didn't expect Vikram's work at GWC to connect us back to that."

"This is really not good," he says, his fingers paused over the keyboard. "How close are we to doing something really stupid here, Hayley?"

"I don't know," she answers. The honesty is nice, the blunt way she tackles a problem, but whenever her voice goes soft like that it makes him feel worse. Like she thinks she needs to be extra considerate because it's bad news. Very bad news.

"You don't know." He stares down at the screen, his heart giving an extra couple beats as if for good measure, make sure he's nice and panicked.

"It's possible-" she hesitates, "we already did something stupid. But you're using a proxy server, so..."

He groans and swipes a hand down his face. "Kate is going to kill me."

"If someone else doesn't kill you first," Hayley says cheerfully.

"Wait," Castle says, straightening up again. "Why did our simple little safety check into _Vikram_ pull up information we're not supposed to be investigating?"

Hayley arches an eyebrow.

He stares back at her.

"GWC owns property in Connecticut," Hayley says quickly.

"How close a tie is that to Panama and the sanitation company?"

"Not that close," she answers. He can _hear_ her attempting to infuse her words with false cheer. "GWC only ranked Panama _City_ , for one thing, and for another... err, they ranked every city in the world, even ours?"

He scowls.

"I'm sure it's nothing," she tells him. "I just want to head up to Connecticut and see for myself what this GWC is all about. Vikram did some analyst work for them when he was still with the Attorney General's office, so it must have been condoned. This isn't anything remotely kill-you-worthy."

"No," he says suddenly, standing up from his chair. "I'll go. I need you to stay here and work on this. I'm useless, worse than useless, using my unsecured laptop. You've got all the bells and whistles; you keep going."

Hayley looks disappointed. "But-"

"Please," he says, jaw tightening when it escapes him. He didn't mean to plead with her. He just needs to be doing _something_ on this. "Like you said. It's nothing. But if Kate is going to kill me for it, might as well go out guns blazing, right?"

"I'm not sure that's an apt metaphor."

"I'll leave first thing in the morning," he says, gathering his coat. He glances to the windows and notes the rattle of icy raindrops past the glass, scowls at the grey day. "I should tell Kate but-"

How, exactly? Hire a skywriter, pass her notes in the hallway? The walkie talkie method would work but only if she has it on her person, and he's pretty sure she's taken it to wherever she's crashing at night. Motel or rented room. She tells him good-night so that he knows she's finally going to bed, and they share the white noise of the open channel all night.

"Oh, come on," Hayley snarks, rolling her eyes at him. "You can't tell me a man with your money and resources hasn't bought the woman a burner phone. Hell, buy two, buy _four_. All of us can have a burner. That way no one is showing up on random call logs."

He startles away from the desolate view and stares down at Hayley.

Why hasn't _he_ thought of that?

 **X**

Linda jerks to attention the moment she sees him slip into the mail room, but Castle gives her an even wider smile and approaches shaking the white paper bag. The mail room of the Twelfth Precinct is at a dull roar tonight, a couple of clerks sorting into mail carts behind Linda, but Castle gives her his full attention.

She holds up a hand and half closes her eyes as if to stop him. "We've been warned. All of us. You're not to be working on cases."

"No, no, of course, I understand," he says smoothly. "I stopped by to say hello to a few friends. That's all." He shakes the bag at her a little, letting his smile widen. "Just a pick-me-up. For all of you." He gestures to include the whole room. "Really, the administrative staff, the clerks and aides, those of you working tirelessly in Research and Archives and the Mail Room - honestly - it's a thankless job. But I'm here to make sure that you know how much you're appreciated."

Someone actually claps, one of those bursts of applause that is quickly stifled again, but Castle beams and lowers the white take out bag to the top of the main work table.

"Ladies and gentleman, I present you with - cronuts."

"Oh my God," Linda gasps. "No one ever brings us cronuts."

Another woman shoves forward, smoothing her hands nervously down her pencil skirt. "No one brings us _anything_. You're the first, Mr Castle."

He tries to look demure, waving it off, but he uses his gesture as a distraction to tug a manila mailer out from behind his back. He's had it tucked into his pants since LT let him inside the Twelfth and it is _uncomfortable_ to be so spy.

"I read your last book," a man says. His eyes are on the bag of cronuts as the first woman reaches out to open it. "The Nikki Heat book. You give a lot of attention to the administrative aides in that one. I thought that detail was - inspired."

Castle beams for real. "Yeah? I figured your work - all of your work - shouldn't go unnoticed."

"Wish your ex thought so too," someone sighs.

It's quiet, but there's no rancor. Only wistfulness. And the sounds of cronuts being passed around the room. He's glad he purchased so many.

But the word _ex_ sticks with him.

It's what they wanted, the cover, but it doesn't feel right. "She's still my wife," he says then. "I'm trying to get her back. So if you all will put in a good word for me."

There are a general flutter of laughs, even some pity, but Linda pats his arm and say she'll try. She turns her back on him to collect a cronut, and Castle slides the flat mailer into the nearest cart, certain it will make its way to his wife. He then steps forward to entertain, keep them all distracted long enough to smooth over his sudden interest in the mail room.

He leaves an hour later with a promise from Linda to call him if anything juicy happens, and more than a few blackslaps and well-wishes, _we're cheering for you, Mr. Castle._

 **X**

Kate glances up at the knock on her open office door, sees her administrative aide with the mail cart.

"Thanks, Linda. I'm waiting on results-?"

"Those came," the woman says quickly, bustling inside with a stack of mailers and plain envelopes, usually cases she has to review. Kate signs for the three that have been brought up from Archives, but when she takes her stack, she realizes there are four.

"Wait, I think there's-"

But her eyes fall on the cramped handwriting in the address box, and she stops herself.

"Is something wrong, Captain?"

"No, nothing wrong. My mistake." She lifts her head and smiles, warmly, for all the strange fluttering eagerness in her throat. "Thank you."

Linda nods and goes back to the mail cart, but she gives Kate another little look, as if in pleased surprised, as if she thinks the smile is for her.

When she's left, Kate stares down at the mailer in her hands - one of the usual inter-departmental things that can come all the way from One Police Plaza or from right here within her own precinct. But this one didn't.

How Castle stole one of these mailers, she'll never know, but it's his handwriting on the package.

She quickly unspools the thread holding the flap closed and lifts it open, reaching inside without looking.

Kate pulls out an iPhone.

And a note, written on the same expensive stationary he used when he wrote her card for Valentine's Day. She finds it apropos that both cards have now found their way to the office of the captain.

And she knows that's how he intended it. Symbolism in every gesture. The card is simple and to the point:

 _LOVE_

She presses her thumb to the home key of the phone and the dark screen lights up. She swipes it to the right and enters 5683 - _love._

The screen immediately rises up to a nondescript background, one of the stock dynamic wallpapers that stay on the phone. There are only a handful of apps but she knows immediately which one to call up; she knows because he agonized over this scene with her only six months ago. Nikki and Rook did this too.

She calls up the Notes and sure enough, Rick Castle has written her a love letter, as only he can.

 _Want to play spy with me?_

 _I should have thought of this a week ago, but no, I went for walkie talkies because I never do things the easy way. I bet you're wondering how I sneaked this case request document folder out of there - or back in - but a magician never reveals his secrets._

She can practically see him grinning at her, that smug look in his eyes.

 _We both have a phone. Hayley says don't use them at the Fortress of Solitude in Queens (that's what we're calling your hideout with Vikram), or at the 12th or my office, but it's fine for me in the Batcave (our place), or you at the motel, because of all the other hundreds of signals inside apartment buildings and hotels. Otherwise, it's paid for in cash from a Radio Shack in Spanish Harlem, and then Hayley jail-broke it so that it won't trace back to us, text or voice-_

She doesn't even finish reading the rest of it, all his reasoning and excuses, she just wants to call him. She wants to call him.

But she's supposed to be leaving tonight to get ahead of the weather, and he said not from the Twelfth, not from the strip club in Queens, and she doesn't _go_ anywhere else-

Except.

 **X**

"Hey there, babe."

His hum of pleasure at her voice makes her toes curl, and she tilts her head against the wall, closing her eyes to picture him. Alone in the loft, sitting at his desk. The icy rain clattering against the window. His laptop glowing, the shadows on his face.

"Thought you had to leave tonight. Are you calling me from the road?"

"No, I put it off. Going tomorrow morning." She feels warm, despite everything. Warm with just his voice. "Smart idea, Rick."

"Much better than a tunnel in Central Park, isn't it?" he says happily. She can practically see his eyes crinkling in the corners, the way his whole countenance brims with light.

"Well," she sighs.

"Well? Wait. Where are you calling from?"

She opens her eyes and puts her back to the wall, glancing down at her boots, the mud she's tracked over the pavement.

"Kate, no. You're at the tunnel? Right _now_?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, Kate. This late at night..."

"I am armed, you know."

"Doesn't mean you should go looking for trouble."

"But I can't call from the strip club-"

"Fortress of Solitude."

"Right. That. Or the Twelfth. So I... came here. It's close to the Met, and you know I love you inside the Met."

"Only inside the Met?" he chuckles.

"No, I mean - you know what I meant."

"Our date," he teases. "That was one of my favorites, too. But aren't you cold?"

"And a little wet," she admits.

"Oh, _really_? Thinking about our naked time-?"

She bites her bottom lip, rolls to her shoulder to put her back to the end of the tunnel. Probably not smart, but she is armed, like she said. "No. Just walked here in the drizzle."

"Don't ruin my fantasy."

Kate opens her eyes, watching the trees sway in the wind, the rain shimmering on the pavement. "I miss you. And your fantasies."

"I could narrate one for you in vivid detail if you like."

She laughs but it aches. It aches and she finds herself saying, "Please."

Please.

"Yes," he says with relish. "Let's see if I can get you arrested for public indecency."

He just might.

And that thrills her too.

 **X**


	12. December 12

**Wintersong**

* * *

 **December 12**

 **X**

 _may we remember who we are_

 **X**

After Hayley does some fancy footwork with the jail-broke burner phone, Rick Castle can finally download the Hitch app. Step one in his master plan to investigate Vikram this weekend. Now at least he gets to use the Hitch app for a good cause. Or rather, for a cause other than mere book research (which was going no place special just to ride as a passenger in some stranger's car so he can have Jameson Rook use it).

Not today. No, this morning, he has a specific purpose for using Hitch - he doesn't have a car. Well, he has the Ferrari, but it's not subtle; anyone could follow him out of the city. And calling a cab would put his credit card information on file somewhere, not to mention the cab itself is GPS tracked. If he's going to do this right, it has to be as anonymous as possible.

When he drops the red pin on the map to indicate his desired destination, five different vehicles aggregate his search results.

 _Five_ people are commuting to Connecticut or farther, five different cars could drop him off right at the door to Global World Consortium, just like that.

He's deliriously excited. He definitely is not telling Kate about any of this because he knows from last year's book research that she thinks the app is dangerous, not to mention the whole super-villain they're trying to stop who might or might not be onto them. But he does tell his daughter.

He leaves his real phone with her and Hayley at the PI office, and he takes only his mint-new burner phone with its minimalist apps and services. If his investigating does uncover anything that leads back to the main event, he doesn't want his phone number popping up in the area.

What does pop up is his ride, approaching northbound on the map on his screen.

Castle is going to assume that LockSat isn't driving a 98 Hyundai Elantra from New York City to Somers, Connecticut, so he books the ride on the Hitch app and waits at the corner of Broome and Broadway for his hitch.

He's bouncing on his feet when the car pulls up, the engine still running as the guy leans in over the wheel and gestures. Castle opens the passenger door and the thirty-something male thumps on the wheel with his thumbs, head bobbing to rock metal turned down low.

A study in contradictions.

Castle gets in and the guy offers his hand. "I'm Mike. Mike Hinton. There are toll roads, you know."

"I'm good for that," Castle promises, pulling on his seat belt. "I have cash." Not a pass.

"I have the EZ Pass, but I meant - that's part of the Hitch."

"I completely understand." And now Castle's movements are being masked by Mike Hinton's EZ Pass, which makes Hitch ideal for exactly this work.

"Excellent," Mike says. "I work at the prison in Somers. I take this drive every Saturday morning to clean the whole place. All weekend. Pay is awesome, but the tolls are killer."

"Killer," Castle grins, clutching the door handle as Mike Hinton pulls out into traffic.

 **X**

Since Beckett spent her night talking secretly to her husband, she rides the motorcycle for her out-of-state visit. She's checked in with Esposito, who has taken lead in the Homicide bullpen lately, and she feels confident the Twelfth is running smoothly.

She has an interview with the sanitation manager at nine this morning, and she's glad to be getting real work done on this case. She is desperate for traction, for this to _go_ somewhere; she wants to go home.

But first, Beckett puts gas in the bike using cash, fits the helmet on over her head, and kicks off, heading out of the city on 95.

It's a crisp, angry-blue morning. The cold air is exhilarating, and her shoulders hunch as she leans into the wind. She hasn't ridden in ages, but it's still the most natural thing in the world, the dip and sway of the road meeting her wheels and the tension in her body acting to keep her balanced.

Her stress shakes out the longer she rides. She has a two-hour drive ahead of her, and crazy holiday traffic to deal with, but the need for constant focus and attention means she can't think of anything else, only the effort of travel.

The bare branches are dark with last night's storm, the trunks so soaked with rainfall that they appear more vivid and vital than in summer green. The temperature is hovering somewhere above freezing, but it only gives a dainty frost over the morning, a kind of lacework for the brown earth and mud.

With her helmet snug and the faceplate down, she doesn't feel the sting of the wind, only its helpful nudge against her sides, against the bike. The sun has cleared out yesterday's grey and burned away the haze, and the slush of water on the interstate is finally beginning to dry out.

It's not beautiful but it is blue, and that's something. The stern cast of the earth's silver bowl is being refined by the morning.

She can almost forget that she's traveling for business and not pleasure. She told the Twelfth she was headed up to Northern Correctional Institution, which holds the state's male death row inmates and convicts serving long sentences for violent crimes. Her objective isn't Precinct-related, but she could easily make it out to be; a particular bent to the Dear John case might pass off her Saturday jaunt as taking the extra mile.

She won't think about it right now. She'll breathe in December and let the refining work on her, the blade of the wind and the low-hanging glaze of the sun.

 **X**

GWC feels like a dead-end when Castle leaves the interview room. He got the full press package, for sure, and a three-hour power point on the benefits of a global economic revisionist system.

He has no idea what GWC has to do with Vikram or Panama, but as he shakes the woman's hand who confessed to him at the beginning of their talk that she's _more of a numbers girl_ , Castle thinks at least he didn't waste Hayley's valuable time with this.

At first, it was so invigorating to get out of the city. Connecticut in December is charming and hospitable, and he loves the colonial flair for the holidays. Somers is mostly the correctional facility, he came to find out, but the GWC offices are located in a quaint office complex designed in the Mid-Atlantic style, with exterior gable chimneys and brick hyphens with beautifully-crafted arches between the rented spaces.

But by the time he's finally ushered through the lobby of GWC, he feels numbed by an endless parade of numbers and analysts, people reduced to calculations, and the exchange of ideas down to mere business. The woman opens the door for him and a gust of freezing wind blows through the massive front room, causing everyone to shudder. Castle tugs his wool coat closed by its lapels and the woman offers him a twisted-mouth good luck as he braves the outdoors.

He intended to walk back to the center of town from here, window shop and admire the Christmas decorations, but instead he finds himself arrested on the sidewalk, blowing on his hands for warmth and surveying the horizon.

The sky is leaden.

In the short time since he arrived, the blue sky has turned to dark and grey, that snow-dome that covers the sky from east to west. Absolutely heavy-laden with an approaching storm front. And even as he watches the bare branches scritch-scratch at the sky with their scaly fingers, the snow begins.

Like being conjured out of thin air, fat flakes land on his nose and forehead, gather in his lashes and crown his hair so that it melts and trickles down under his collar. He watches the sky for a moment, watches the snow appear as if by magic - as if a dream. As the pearl-grey fills with snowflakes, he realizes that the earth itself is filling up too.

He watches with a muffled curiosity as evergreen bushes are capped with snow and the roads gather accumulation, as the ground itself layers with white.

None of it is melting.

"Castle?"

He jerks around, a puppet on a string, turning wildly for the source of that voice, and there she is, coming down the sidewalk through the swirl of snow, his dark angel in the white.

"Kate."

Her hands pull out of her pockets, her gloves cup his face, warm and leather, before she's kissing him, mouth to mouth, breathing life inside him.

 **X**

"Wait, wait-"

"No, we can't-"

"Not in public-"

"In front of their offices."

"Just in case."

They pull away at the same moment, words as tangled as their fingers and bodies, and yet the shine of his lips from her kiss and the mussed ruffle of his hair where the wind has taken it makes her lean back in again and kiss him just one more time.

He's warm. He tastes like coffee and ginger snaps.

"We have to go," Castle says against her lips, or so she imagines, because now he's tugging her down the sidewalk, propelling her really, before she can properly mourn the loss of his mouth.

His hand is wide and chapped around hers, the skin rough in the webbing between thumb and index finger where it cracks in the winter. She used to sit in bed and rub her own lotion into those places for him, the warmth of their bedroom closing out the cold, his shoulder canted in against hers, that rumble of appreciation in his chest.

Now she doesn't. And that spot is cracking again.

"What are you doing here?" she says finally, tucked in at his side so that their shoulders are pressed together. "Not that I don't love meeting you out of the blue." She rubs her hand up and down his bicep, through the thick coat, squeezing his hand in hers.

"Doing a little research," he says breezily, steering her down the sidewalk towards the town square where she parked her bike. Though he can't possibly know that can he? "Well, actually, doing some background checks."

"On?"

He hunches those broad shoulders, and she stops them on the sidewalk in front of a hardware store. "Castle."

"Just a few key players in this drama-"

"Castle, _no_."

"Not your investigation. No one _in_ your investigation. I only have the burner phone on me, booked a car through the app - all cash - and Alexis and Hayley both know where I am. There's no chance-"

" _Castle."_ She shoves on him, but he's all bundled coat and broad chest and he doesn't budge. "This is why I kept this from you for so long. This is what you do; it's like you can't help it."

"Kate," he protests.

"This can't be happening, you tagging along after me-"

"I wasn't," he hisses, grabbing her by the sleeve of her leather jacket. "I came here on my own, a side investigation. This has nothing to do with you."

"Obviously, it _does_ or you wouldn't be here _where_ _I am_. Investigating."

"It - I-" He growls and scrubs his hand down his face. "Hayley and I are looking into Vikram. That's all. Just doing some background on the guy since he's the one you're trusting."

"I'm not - it's - not like that," she says feebly. "Castle, please don't get involved in this. I can't risk you."

"There's no risk here. I was careful. We've been careful. The AG's office and the FBI already have an open case on Vikram, remember? Allison Hyde found all those-"

"That was stuff LockSat made up," she stresses. "And obviously, not careful enough, Castle, because you were _here_ at the same office complex as the sanitation company."

"The sanitation company?" He winces. "Listen, I get it. I understand. I know you think something is going to happen to me, Kate, but I'm totally off the grid on this-"

"No," she yells, hands tightening into fists. The wind is tangling her hair and it feels wild inside her ribs, like her heart wants to escape. "You don't understand. You don't get it. You've led a charmed life, Castle; you've said so yourself. Your dreams come true, right? You think you're untouchable, that nothing bad can happen to you, but I'm not like that."

"Kate-"

"I'm not like that. In my life, no one is untouchable. _No one_ escapes."

He doesn't say anything. His face is that smooth and placating blankness that so infuriates her.

That so _scares_ her. "Castle. Everyone close to this case - everyone _dies_." All that is her heart, whatever is left of it, is standing before her, walking around outside her chest, this flesh and blood man who could so easily take her heart away with him. "Everyone dies."

He takes her by the arms. "Okay. Okay, I know."

She gulps a choking breath and swipes at her eyes, realizes that it's not tears on her cheeks but the faint touches of snowflakes melting on contact with her skin. She glances up and sees the wind swirling snow, the trees beginning to bow and touch each other. She takes deep breaths in the winter cold, letting it fill her lungs, letting it freeze out the urge to cry.

He squeezes her elbows. "Time out, Kate."

She nods, still not looking at him, afraid to meet his eyes. Her lashes are clumping together, and maybe those were tears, maybe she's that close to breaking.

"Time out," he breathes, releasing her. "We don't have to do this today. Not here."

"Not here," she gets out. The snow falls so thickly her vision is obscured by flakes dotting her eyelashes and clinging to her cheeks. She breathes, numbed by icy air and the cold inside her lungs, standing apart on the sidewalk.

The air swirls with snow, accumulating fast, an invasion that obscures the curbs and leaves the sharp edges round. She turns in place and watches the way the world becomes a new creation, muffled and without form, some great beast lulled back to sleep.

His hand reaches out for hers and she clasps it, their fingers lacing. Her heart beats slowly, in time to the soft sounds of obscurity.

"It's serendipity, Kate."

She nods and her throat closes up; she has to close her eyes.

He finally steps into her, his body giving off heat and melting the snow that comes between them. "How'd you get up here anyway?"

"Rode the bike," she admits, shaking her head. "Can't ride it back now."

"No." There's another heartbeat between them that she feels rock her on her feet. "No, probably not. So stay the night with me."

"What?" Her surprise breathes out and drifts in the eddies of snow. "Stay with you where?"

"There are a couple of winter cottages in town. I saw For Rent signs in the windows. No one will be - should be - driving in this. Stay with me instead."

He said he booked a car, all cash. After the wreck, and his disappearance, they never replaced that car because they kept shying away from memories of that summer. Of course he wouldn't have driven the Ferrari up here, or Alexis's moped, and there isn't anything else.

There isn't anything else.

"We're out of the public eye, off the beaten track," he goes on, trying to win her over. "No one will know, Kate."

His hand comes up and cups the side of her face, and she catches his thumb and curves hers to his, closing her eyes.

His kiss is soft and she feels it unfurling through her body.

"Stay the weekend with me?"

"I want our Christmas," she murmurs, opening her eyes. "I want Christmas with you, Castle. Right here."

 **X**


	13. December 13

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 13_**

 ** _X_**

 _part of something good_

 **X**

Kate puts her phone down and pads barefoot across the wooden floorboards, her toes curling up from the cold. She reaches the bed and crawls in, that perfect and heated spot at his side, settles down even as the window pearls with the approaching morning.

She can see the shadows of things in the room, just over the rise of his chest, the miniature mountain range of his knuckles where his hand rests. She kisses his shoulder but he's thankfully still asleep, and she slides her arm around his torso and lays her hand on top of his.

Yesterday, they spent too much time arguing over the investigation. Castle had found Madi and Hugh Franklin, the owners of a winter cottage on Broad Street, and gotten the keys immediately. Their impromptu vacation is impulsive, maybe even irresponsible, but all she could think about yesterday was how he's going to get himself killed. Sitting in the Franklins' winter cottage with cups of coffee and homemade pumpkin roll (baked by Hugh; he's the homebody of the two), she and Castle battled back and forth about what was off-limits and where the lines were drawn. About the difference between partner and spouse, about what it would do to her if she dragged him into the darkness and then lost him.

And then, of course, as it usually did, the tension sparked and caught wick, drew them inexorably closer, two moths in one flame, immolation. The place where they thought along the same tracks and finished each other's sentences and came to their ideas simultaneously - the place where they wound up in bed to fight for dominance, to find submission.

Castle says he won't investigating LockSat. But he won't give up his background search on Vikram. They have a tentative truce on the details, but this morning, the cold grey light beginning to filter through the curtains, Kate doesn't want to talk about all of that. She doesn't want this weekend, reserved for him, to be about how quickly her nightmares can manifest in her real life.

She wants to lie in this cozy bedroom under the patchwork quilt with her husband and watch the snow drift past the window. She doesn't want to leave the bed.

Kate stares out to the sky, watching the bowed boughs of evergreens brush the screen and dust snow to the sill. She can't see much farther than the fine division of the power lines strung above the road, and the brick home next door, but there are birds. Brightly red, like jewel drops against silver satin, but with a texture of warmth and puffed-up pride that keeps her attention for longer than she knows.

After a while, she feels his fingers twitch under hers, and then that slow circle his thumb does against the back of her hand. A wake up routine she's missed.

She tilts her head to meet his eyes, and he sighs as if shaking off the last of dreams. His body ripples with a taut efficiency and before she can move, he's turned into her, his head on her shoulder and his body draped at her side.

Kate unburies her arm from between them and instead draws it around his shoulders. Her lips brush his temple.

"Can you stay?" he says, his voice rough with sleep. "Or is it a state of emergency in the city right now?"

"I talked to Ryan," she admits. "It's barely even raining there. Too warm. Santacon went off without any trouble, only a handful in lock-up."

He chuckles and tightens an arm around her waist, bringing her hips against him. "I forgot about that. I bet Penn Station was crazy."

She slips her fingers down his back and to the waistband of the plaid pajama pants he bought yesterday. She slides down inside and curls her palm over the rise of his glute.

"Hey," she whispers. "Rick?"

He nuzzles in against her neck until his face is clear of her shoulder. His lashes are long and make his eyes so pretty that she can't help moving her free hand to that flop of bangs, pushing it aside to see him better.

"Let's stay in bed all morning," she finishes. It feels like her heart is in her throat.

He kisses the meat of her thumb. "Never say no to that," he answers, but that usual ease is gone. He's not joking, not smiling. He's serious. "You don't have to say good-bye to me, Kate. That's not how this works."

"I'm not," she promises. "It's not good-bye."

"We're doing this together. The whole way. You're standing on a bomb, and I'm leaving only to get you coffee."

She nods, lifting her eyes to the wood grain of the headboard, taking a deeper breath.

He pushes up with his toes, pushing against her as well, body to body, but his kiss lands just under her jaw. "After we cuddle for warmth - and the snow plows come through - let's walk through town, pick up a few Christmas decorations. Make something of our day."

"Yeah," she answers, dropping her chin to look at him. She combs her fingers through his hair and tries to remind herself - she's not saying good-bye. This weekend isn't their last.

He stays with her. Where he belongs. This is his place. More than that, she won't let him be taken from her.

This time his kiss is a little more forceful, and a lot more distracting, and she has no trouble at all putting him right where he belongs.

Under her.

And then on top, because she can take turns.

 **X**

Castle grins when he feels her huddle at his side, her arm reaching across his chest to snatch her hot chocolate out of his hand. He turns his head to kiss her cold-chapped nose and she wrinkles it, ducking to put the hot cocoa to her mouth instead.

He watches her a moment, the glow of ambient light filtering through the silver-domed sky. It should be somewhere around noon, and while he doesn't see anything other than the grey bell jar covering the town, the snow is glowing, lighting her up.

"You look pretty," he murmurs, knowing how simple it sounds. "Cheeks flushed."

He gets a sidelong look for that. "Hurry up, Castle. Hugh said that the wood carvers have the whole court building filled with stuff. I want to wander around _inside_. Where it's warm."

He moves to comply, leading her away from the coffee shop where he bought their cocoa, and she keeps her arm tucked through his, her shoulder pressed against his own.

He knows they should probably leave before nightfall, that they can't share a taxi back to the city, that they'll separate when the world spins on once more. But he loves being this man with her, outside of New York, outside of the investigation. Rick Rodgers can hold his wife's hand and sip cocoa as they hunt for all things Christmas. Rick Rodgers has been given a time out once more, and he knows good can happen as the result of these little interludes.

Good can happen just walking around.

"Oh, here we are," Kate says, moving forward just enough to detach from his arm. But not from him. She's only three steps up the courthouse when she's turning back to snag him by the scarf and pull him after her.

He goes, and he takes her hand in his, and now they're side by side.

The courthouse is two stories, made of white marble with grand columns and the mandatory war hero statue out front. Kate skirts the base of the general with his raised sword, and a cluster of birds scatter before her, rising up to the general's shoulders and trilling in agitation. Snow has made little drifts against the marble base, the edges of the steps, and someone has cleared a walkway up to the doors.

They step inside, not sure what to expect, only to be greeted with one of the busiest and noisiest Christmas markets Castle has ever seen. The grand hall has been taken over with booths and tables displaying holiday-themed and homemade goods, and it looks like the whole town decided to get out of their houses before they could be snowed in.

Not just the turnout, but the costumes - wandering Santas, sprite elves, angels with wings and halos, reindeer antlers and red noses, even a few people in tinsel and bows like Christmas trees. It's... bizarre.

Beside him, Kate sips her cocoa and hums, turning her nose into his shoulder. He's seen her do it a few times today, and he realizes now that she's trying to warm it up.

He grins and gestures ahead of them to the bustle of shoppers and vendors and costumed workers. "After you."

She threads her arm through his again and glances his way. "What are we looking for here, Castle?"

"What else? A little Christmas magic."

But instead of diving into the throng of people, she turns and steps right into him. The leather of her jacket is cold against his neck where her arm twines around him.

She touches her lips to his jaw and then grazes her kiss back to his ear. Where he can't mistake her voice, her words.

"I've already found my Christmas magic. When I met you."

 **X**

It's Kate who says _one more night_ as she breathes against his open mouth in the darkling snow. Sunset came and went but the snow has never let up, falling all through the day and now on into night.

 _You'll get stuck here,_ he warns her. But neither of them can force the other to care, and they waltz softly under the lamplight on the white-fenced sidewalk. The plows made piles four feet high when they cleared the roads this afternoon, but they haven't been back for another pass despite the snow accumulating thickly in the intersections and now creeping across the yellow lines.

 _One more night_ is what they hum to, dancing slowly to keep from slipping on patches of ice, twirling and moving between the snowbanks.

When she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, her lashes flutter against the snowflakes that cling, and he can't help leaning in and brushing away those melting kisses, replacing them with his own, a kiss for every touch of snow.

She takes him by the hands and leads him through the door into the winter cottage, where Madi and Hugh have left them decaf coffee and a whole chocolate pie, and so they curl around the kitchen table because it's more intimate, because no one else is here but the two of them, because neither of them wants the night to end.

 **X**


	14. December 14

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 14**_

 **X**

 _tell someone all the truth_

 **X**

He is such a beautiful man.

He stands in the snow with his coat collar popped up to fend off sudden landslides from the tree branches overhead and he's grinning.

A man who has somehow gone from asshole to jackass to her only light in the world, even as he crafts a snowball in his hands, palm to palm, his eyes in a knowing slant, as male and irritating and immature as he could be in this moment and yet still her breath catches.

She's so taken by how beautiful he is that she's caught off guard. She might have ducked and avoided his gleefully childish behavior; she might have scolded him for ruining their sweet walk through the woods behind the cottage; but instead she just stares, the sunlight on his hair and the way his face transforms when he's smiling at her, the joy he takes-

And his snowball smashes her directly in the chest. Kate wheezes, reeling back, cold snow trickling down the collar of her leather jacket. Castle chortles, pumping both fists in the air. "I _got_ you." Another triumphant shout. "I got you _good._ "

She laughs, breathless with the cold that melts through her thin shirt. Castle is coming for her now, beaming and so proud of himself, and he catches her up and spins her around, like he can charm her into not retaliating.

But, oh, she has no thoughts of retaliation; she's still struck dumb by him. And he hasn't put her down.

With every spin, she's laughing harder, dizzy, caught by beauty and cold, somewhere in between crying and giggling, and she knows her gratefulness is overwhelming, but she can't do anything about it. He kisses her, a smudge of cold lips and peppermint, and then he puts her back on her feet.

"It's all my prowess at laser tag," he preens.

"In laser tag, you're all covered up and it's dark."

"And... so?" His chuckle reverberates between them, her chest warming with the press of his torso against her own. How close he is. She could narrow her stance and his legs would cradle hers. "It's not that dark for laser tag. The whole vest is lit up anyway."

"No, just. You sneaked up on me out here in the light. Dazzled by the light. And looking handsome." She tilts her head and sneaks a look at him, and he's even brighter than before, if possible.

"Me?" he says, sly shyness. Though some of it might be authentic, under all his showman exterior. Some of that shyness probably _is_ real. The man who was wounded when she walked out on him; the man who has sleepless nights over things in the past.

"You," she whispers, lifting her chin so her lips graze his rough cheek. "Are really handsome. I also like the scruff you're sporting. There's the rugged part. Makes me shiver."

"Laying it on thick, Beckett." His _throat_ sounds thick, his voice like a saw. She's getting to him. She's making him believe.

"Just explaining how it was possible for you to sneak up on me in full sunlight, middle of the day."

"I was going with snowblind," he answers. A happy shrug. He does believe.

"Snowblind," she sighs. "Castle-blind? That doesn't have the same ring to it. Let's call it snowblind then."

He does laugh at that, like he's surprised by her, and his hands tuck up under her leather jacket and make her gasp with the shock of cold. He doesn't let her escape, keeps her close by resting his chin to the top of her head.

She wore her flat black boots to ride the bike, and she's so glad. Not just in deference to the snow out here, but for the difference in their height. She pushes her cold nose to his neck and he gasps, making her chuckle.

"Deserve it and worse," she tells him. "I have snow down my bra."

"I can warm those up for you."

She would be abhorred to find herself giggling like this any other day. But she can't help it. And the sun is bouncing brilliant off the snow, and he smells like _them_ rather than just himself alone, and she loves him.

And he still loves her.

"Did I ruin our romantic walk?" he murmurs.

"Little bit."

"Oh, good. I was getting cold. Can we go inside now?" he whines.

She thumps his shoulder and shakes her head. "I want to do - everything. Our last day freely being us."

"We could do _us_ inside. Under the covers. Where it's warm."

"We can do that kind of us in the city. Remember the Old Haunt?"

"Oh, do I."

"Then walk with me, Rick. No - wait. _Play_ with me." She releases him and catches his flicker of consternation, the look that runs over his face that she can't entirely identify, but it's gone before she can find something to say.

Like _why do you look at me like that_?

She's not sure she wants an answer to that question.

But he turns it into a leer, just that fast. Jackass. " _Play_ with you. I am certainly up for that." Eyes turning smoky, like grey embers. "I'll make you _wish_ you had chosen in bed where it's warm."

She takes a step back and his eyes grow heavy, as if he's already narrating it in his head. He does that sometimes, starts the story before she can join. It's hot when he's being creative, but it's also frustrating.

 _Wait for me,_ she wants to pout. Like a child.

Kate sets her jaw and bends down, scoops up the first chunk of ice and snow she finds, and then she stands and rapidfire throws.

It nails his shoulder and runs down his arm to his fingers, wet and icy, and he stares at her.

"Looks like _I_ got _you_." She puts her hands on her hips and smirks. "What are you going to do about it?"

And then he tackles her, and instead of a snowball fight, they're wrestling under the evergreen trees, shoving snow down each other's backs and into faces, flipping and rolling, grunts and laughs sharp in the air.

 **X**

She giggles as she lurches away from him, and he would give away his Ferrari to hear her laugh like that for the rest of his life. He catches her by the tail of her leather jacket and tries to tug her back, but his fingers are too numb to be accurate any longer.

She clings to a bare tree trunk and swings back around, pole dancer and wood sprite in one, and she reaches out for his coat, hooking the lapel. "You're cute, but I'm starving. Feed me, Castle."

"Yes, ma'am." His stomach has been twisting in knots for the last hour, but he was having too much fun to go inside yet. He's nearly soaked to the skin and so is she, her hair drying like spiraled icicles, stiff and faintly white where the sunlight makes it sparkle. "Back to the cottage."

"Yeah, hot shower," she says, letting a suggestive smirk come to her lips. But as she trips into him, the leer falls away and she grips his coat, sinking.

She's sinking.

"Kate," he laughs, catching her at the waist and lifting her up. "You sunk in a snow drift." He still has her by her hips, but he tilts his head back, trying to see between the branches to the sky. "Oh. Wow. It's really coming down."

"It is?" she croaks. She's gripping his coat and struggling free of the foot of snow she fell into. "Oh, God, Castle, I didn't even check the weather report on my phone. I don't - even know if my phone is still charged. The precinct-"

"The front was heading to the ocean, not towards the city," he says. "I checked. But where is your phone? Espo has probably been trying to reach you."

"I forgot," she mutters, lifting one boot and placing it square on the root of a tree. "It's Monday, and I didn't even think." The root holds and she practically climbs out of the sunken snow, the little hollow that trapped her. "I didn't even think. You make me forget the world."

He grins. "Is that a bad thing?"

A slant of her eyes as she looks back at him. Her hand comes up, gloved fingers wriggling. He takes her hand and carefully bypasses the collapsed portion, the two of them knocking into each other as they trudge through fresh accumulation. As the trees thin, the sky appears, and with it, the still falling snow. Little baby flakes this time, but obviously it's still piling up.

"Not a bad thing," she says then. She's breathless with effort, which makes him feel better about the work he's having to do here too, and they fall into silence while they climb uphill through the trees.

Once they clear the thickest part of the woods, the snow really starts to fall, piling up in strange forms and shapes as it covers tree roots, fallen logs, and underbrush. They have to separate more than a few times to use their hands to clear a path or go over a limb, and by the time the reach the back lawn of the cottage, it's obvious.

They're not getting out of here today.

"Have the snow plows come through?" Kate asks, her voice altered by the cold air and their hike.

"I can't tell from here." He snags the placket of her leather jacket and tugs her back towards the door, away from the street. "Warm up first, Kate. We'll get your phone charged-"

"I don't have the cord on me. It's back in the city." She shifts ahead of him, walking more quickly now, and his heart sinks. He hopes she's not regretting this.

"We'll find one. We'll figure something out."

On the back porch, she stomps to clear her boots and jeans of snow, and he bends over and brushes at her pant legs to help. She lifts one foot to shake out her jeans, but he takes over for her, and she simply hangs on to his shoulder for balance, letting him.

When her pants are clear, he moves to do his own, but Kate knocks his hand away and does it for him, crouching down to knock the snow from his laces, scrape the ice from his jeans. She lifts her head. "Your feet have to be freezing, Castle. You're not wearing boots."

"Little bit numb, yeah."

"Okay, come on. Hot shower. First thing. And your gloves are the cheap ones from the store. God, Rick, you're going to have frostbite."

Her face is rippling with concern, her frustration over her phone and being out of contact with her job now bleeding over into him. He lets her lead him inside, but he's surprised when she starts unwinding his scarf and then unbuttoning his coat.

"Take this off," she murmurs, standing close. She smells like snow. "Hugh made a fire in the kitchen fireplace this morning while you were getting supplies. I watched him, so it'll be simple to build a new one and dry off our coats." Her fingers are nimble, fast, and he feels her like little sparks of electricity where she tugs at him.

"Good idea."

"Here," she says, a hot breath against his cheek as she goes up on her toes to slide off his coat.

He shrugs out of the sleeves, and she passes her hand down his plaid shirt, her eyes following the movement of her fingers. He catches her hand in his, plays with her ring as he feels how chilled her hands are. "You too, Kate." He releases her to tug at the zipper of her leather jacket.

She lifts her eyes to his. He pauses.

He doesn't know what she's trying to say in the silences, what her eyes telegraph. Something is moving through her, something powerful, and he can't tell if she's working to suppress it or simply feeling too much.

"Fireplace," he reminds her gently. "Phones. Shower."

"Fireplace, yeah," she echoes. "But the shower is first, I think. Warm you up. Priorities, Castle."

Well, that he hears clearly enough. She didn't mention the phone at all.

Priorities.

 **X**

When the hot water runs cold, they have to scramble to escape the narrow tub, tripping over the rim and tangling together as they work to get out. Castle shuts off the spray, Kate lunges for their towels, and when she turns back to him, his lips are blue but his cheeks flushed red, his ears pink, and she grins.

He's like a big old kid. Her husband. She wraps the towel around her. "Cold water kinda ruined it, but you warm now?"

He nods happily, shivering as cool air eddies around them. She tucks her own towel around her breasts and he takes the other one, rubbing at his hair first so it sticks in spikes all over his head.

She doesn't resist the urge to run her fingers through it, their skins catching with the wet bump and slide. He tilts his head down for her, like a pet, his eyes slanting shut just the same way.

"You're cute," she says, and his eyes pop open. She shakes her head and steps back, taking her hair and wrapping it around her fist to ring out the water into the tub.

"Did you check your phone?"

"Not yet," she says. "But I've been conservative. Might have enough juice left." When she straightens up, he's carefully not looking at her, and she carefully does the same. She's not checking her phone just yet. She will have to, decisions will have to be made, but she wants to remain master of her fate; she won't allow the tyranny of the so-called urgent to sway her into abandoning this.

It's vital that she be here with him, and she knows it.

"Here," he says quietly, handing over her pile of clothes.

She takes them and presses them against her chest, watching him as he goes about his routines. The towel swiped across his torso and down his legs, the deftness of his hands, the way his stature fills the small bathroom. He steps into boxers and then dives into his undershirt, breaking the surface with a grin.

"Free show," he laughs, wriggling an eyebrow - and his ass - until she cracks a smile. Not just Jameson Rook who shakes his ass for his partner.

"Yeah, it is a free show. You never do seem to charge me."

"My mistake," he says. "Always forget to you with you."

She feels warm, all through. Standing in a towel as the cold leaks in around the narrow bathroom window, she feels flooded with heat. It's stupid and it's silly, but it's also everything. And he still shows up for it.

"Come on, Kate. Get moving. Miles to go before we sleep, all that."

 **X**

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he stretched out on the bed while she contacted the Twelfth, and somewhere in the middle of Beckett getting updates from Espo and Ryan, he dozed off.

He wakes to twilight, that particular glow of a landscape filled with snow while the dark clouds above reflect its ethereal light. He feels stiff and too heavy, and when he can finally move to turn over, he finds Kate propped up against the headboard, a book tilted on her knees towards the window to catch the last of the light.

"Hey," he gets out, clearing his throat.

It takes her a long moment to come back to him, to travel back from the world of - ah, a weather-beaten Agatha Christie novel. When her eyes clear, she smiles at him, lifts her hand from where it must have been resting near his head. Her fingers come through his bangs and he closes his eyes again, laying his cheek on her ankles, wrapping a hand around her shin.

"You missed lunch, babe." Her fingers trace a circle around his eye and smooth his eyebrow. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," he says, flinching as his stomach growls. "Did you eat something already?"

She chuckles softly. "Back when it was lunch time, yeah, I did. Madi and Hugh came over to check on us. Madi made turkey sandwiches - from real turkey. Like eating Thanksgiving leftovers on homemade bread."

"You're torturing me here, Beckett."

She laughs brighter, gripping his hair and tugging a little. "Not my fault that you fell asleep."

"Au contraire. You wore me out last night. Wouldn't keep your hands off me."

"Mm, I did do that."

He grins and kisses her bare ankle. "What's up with the Twelfth? I thought you would have to get back. Snowstorm is all hands on deck, isn't it?"

Her voice is soft when it comes, means her smile is soft to match. "You should look out the window, Rick."

"I'm too comfy here. You tell me what I'm supposed to be seeing."

She runs her fingers slowly through his hair. "We have two feet, and more falling. The snow plow for Somers got stuck and Hugh says the roads are impassable. They requested a snow plow from Hartford but Hartford is busy digging out their own city, not to mention the county roads. Plus every bridge from here to New York is iced over."

His eyes pop open. "We're stuck. We - really are stuck."

"We might have made it. Instead of lunch, maybe so. But when I talked to Espo, they were only getting rain. He and Ryan have it covered for me, and my admin aide can keep the emails and memos going. Plus I just approved a bunch of holiday overtime."

He lifts his head. Her hand cups his cheek and comes down to his neck, and she looks certain but also nervous. Not of him, not of them, but maybe of herself.

"So we're snowed in," he says, letting his grin spread until his cheeks hurt.

"We are. And Hugh thinks we might lose power sometime in the night."

"Oh, we can cuddle for warmth!"

"You and Hugh have fun with that-"

He growls and pounces on her, her laughter cut off by the way he rolls her under him. She's bright-eyed and dragging her hands up his back, under his shirt, scratching lightly with her nails, ready to go.

And then his stomach twists and gurgles and she laughs, catching his face in her hands before he can groan and bury it in her neck in shame.

"Dinner downstairs, if you want. Madi made a huge meal and stuck it in our fridge."

"It's already dinner?" he sighs. "All that time wasted sleeping."

"Not a waste at all." Her chin lifts and she nudges a kiss into his cheek. "I want to be right here for all that time, sleeping or awake, forever with you."

To keep his heart from fumbling out of his chest, he has to kiss her back, and hard, until he has words to speak. "Right here? Missionary forever would be boring, Beckett. I like it when you're on top."

She grins back at him, her thumbs stroking down and back along his jaw. "You think you're so clever. But guess what? Even missionary forever - so long as it's with you."

He scoffs, but he can't stop that from getting to him, straight to his heart. And she knows it, she did that on purpose, persisting until she won him, and as he bows his head, she wraps her arms around his shoulders and squeezes.

"Okay, enough of being sappy. Get off me so we can eat. Madi left us pecan pie."

"Oh, hey now," he yelps, scrambling off her. "You didn't say there was _pie._ "

 **X**


	15. December 15

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 15**_

 **X**

 _when the gentle bells say_

 **X**

 _The stars._

Snow presses in against the window, thick, heavy, a smooth blanket to catch the night. His eyes are open and filled with the rush of stars.

How much light there is, how much light.

It fills the whole room, the glow of stars. His wife is silver and velvet, but warm under his arm. He takes a long breath into his lungs and he can taste the starlight through the scent of her.

He's awake in the quiet. The wind-up alarm clock reads three in the morning. He wonders why, but maybe his four hour nap this afternoon, maybe he woke because of the silence.

Such silence and light for all this darkness.

His ear and cheek are cold. His throat where it's exposed. The back of his arm as it skates above the covers and then disappears under again, warm where his wrist lays against her collarbone so that their pulses counter one another's.

The power is out.

The cessation woke him.

Hugh and Madi said it might happen, that firewood is stored in the shed out back if they need more.

They'll need more.

Castle shifts slowly, unwinds his arm from Kate, and slips out of the bed. It's not bad yet, still only that faint touch of frost, the sense that he wants to avoid the windows, wear socks. Not as warm as staying under the covers with his wife, but the quiet does something to him, makes his journey hallowed.

He drags on his jeans from today, the sweatshirt Kate bought while he was sleeping. She bought supplies yesterday when she discovered they wouldn't be making it back to the city; his sweatshirt is hunter green, plain, still smells like the plastic package, and over that, faintly, a trace of her scent.

Shoes, the cheap gloves he bought earlier, the stupid plaid hat she found in the hall closet. He layers up and shrugs on his coat, and then he quietly leaves their room. The floorboards groan under his tread, but he moves quickly, finding the stairs and heading down.

The ground floor is warmer, the living room stuffy. But when he heads through the kitchen to the back door and the porch beyond, he can feel the cold draft coming in under the weather stripping. He shivers when he puts his gloved hand on the knob, feels the ice seeping in through the thin material.

Outside, snow layers the whole world with white. The light is reflected, refracted, beaming back like the face of the moon. He shuffles his feet across the porch to make a channel for Kate later, or Hugh and Madi if they come, or maybe for himself if he's being honest. The snow is deep here, where the wind has blown it up against the house and the clear space of the deck, and it takes him a long time to navigate to the steps, digging through, using his own legs to push aside the snow.

He finds the wide snow shovel that Hugh left beside the railing and he tries to be quiet with it, not scrape the wood and wake everyone in the neighborhood. But he has to clear enough from the steps so that they can find their way, so they won't sink into unseen holes.

He keeps the shovel with him when he gets to the ground, gives the snow a heave every few steps through the yard. It doesn't do very much, not with this much snow and his method erratic. In the morning, he'll come out here again, probably with Hugh, and do a more thorough job, but for now, he just needs a rough path.

When he gets to the shed, it takes a lot more work to clear the door. The snow has been blown against the outbuilding so that the height of it reaches his knees, and he feels the bite of the shovel's handle into the gloves across his palms, the strain in his shoulders. He's impervious to the cold for the most part, even takes his coat off to move around easier. He feels it but there's such a difference between shoveling in snow weather versus huddling for warmth on the floor of a refrigerated car.

Ice down his neck and snow melting into the knees of his jeans is nothing compared to the way that cold settled deep in his bones after the boxcar. Deep and wouldn't leave, no matter how many hot showers. Maybe because he didn't have crawling into bed with her to look forward to.

He takes a break to wipe at the sweat on his forehead, rubs his face against the sleeve of the sweatshirt. He has enough of a radius for the door to open, so he pries a shoulder into the crack and widens it, forcing the door through the snow. Stepping inside the shed, he fumbles in the dark interior for the pull chain, remembers too late the power is out.

Castle chuckles to himself and instead shoves on the door again, opening it enough for the starlight and snowglow to cast their illumination inside the shed.

The wood is stacked just inside the door, all along the left wall, neatly aligned, the sticks piled one on top of the other. Castle begins loading it into his arms, leaves the shovel inside the shed, and starts trudging his way back to the house.

 **X**

Kate wakes confused, gasping when something icy touches her neck, crawls in at her back. She finds large arms hauling her against a cold chest and she grasps his frozen fingers. "Rick," she breathes in relief, concern. Turns her head to see him behind her. "Are your lips blue? What's wrong-"

"Went outside," he gets out, teeth chattering. "Cold. Warm me up, Beckett."

Shedding strange dreams as she goes, she turns into him, clutching his hands between their bodies, lips against his chapped and split knuckles. "You crazy man. What were you doing? Your skin is cracked." She tastes the tint of iron as she kisses his hands.

"Trying to help out," he murmurs, but he's already nosing down against her, toes drawn up to her shins, his body a compact ball nearly on top of her.

She gives up trying to baby his hands, instead slides her arms around his torso, rubbing up and down his back. He's mumbling something into her neck, but his lips and nose are so cold she can't hear him over her own shivering.

She tugs the blankets around them both, adjusting until all the cold air is out there and the warm in here, glances towards the hands of the little alarm clock. Nearly six. Going out in the snow like a fool.

To do something noble, she has no doubt. Help out, he said. Whatever he did, it's for them, for the people here. For others.

Sweet man. Sweet _heart_. Cold as ice right now, but they'll both warm up soon enough.

She thinks he's already asleep.

 **X**

Her nose is cold, or maybe it's just the light that glows outside the window, the snow's moonlike halo, reflecting a sun that is obscured by a solid sky of grey.

Whatever the reason, Kate is awake. Probably the dream again.

She lets herself lie still and warm and body-to-body, memorizing the feel of his knee where it nudges the back of her thigh, his heavy arm over her ribs, the tickle of his breath at her neck. He doesn't usually sleep spooned up to her, that's usually her position, curled into his back when she's cold or stretched at his side with his arm loose around her, and she takes this moment to store it up.

She knows what it's like, sleeping alone, or wanting him so badly she can't sleep. Wondering where he is and if he'll come back to her, if this is finally the day her luck has run out - if her wedding day is his funeral song.

She has always expected something like the very worst. And even though Rick has - time and again - proved to her that what they get in this life is somewhere closer to the very _best_ , she has trouble believing in it. Trouble keeping the faith.

Everything dies, everyone close to her dies. Or leaves. Her mother, her father, Roy, Royce, other relationships. And it's not like that day in the Hamptons taught her any differently, about how love will leave.

And now she's ruined even this moment, this rare time of feeling encased and protected by him; she's ruined it with her predictions of doom. Just as she always does.

Kate turns her face into the pillow and sighs, then pushes back the covers and slides out of bed.

She's immediately swamped with the icy air of the room, and she hops forward, snags Castle's plaid shirt from the back of the chair and shrugs it on. It's barely making a dent in the chill, but she turns to the bed and pulls the covers back up around him, hoping she hasn't let out the body heat.

The power must have gone out sometime during the night.

Kate smooths her hand down Castle's shoulder, but he's truly out of it; he did wander out of bed and rejoin her sometime last night, she thinks. That might have been a dream, but maybe not. She kisses his temple and straightens up, finds the cheap black sweatpants and wool socks she bought yesterday when she knew they were stuck.

Now that she's warmer-clad, Kate shuffles out of the bedroom and closes the door, then heads downstairs. She has to rub at her arms to keep the chill from her fingers, and when she gets to the main floor, she sees the snow outside stacked high against the picture window.

Wow. Big snowstorm. It must have fallen all through the night. She wonders what the backyard must look like, so she heads for the dining room and beyond that for the kitchen and its porch door.

Before she gets a chance to look, Kate is arrested by the sight of piece after piece of firewood stacked up against the far wall beside the fireplace. She stumbles to a halt, and then she remembers Castle's nocturnal wanderings.

He must have brought in the firewood from the shed when the power went out.

Oh, Castle.

She starts forward, her fingers skimming the top of the well-worn table, and then she crouches before the fireplace. Tinder is set up at the bottom of the grate, and she pokes through the ashes until she can nudge it into place. She stands up and reaches for two sticks of wood, one in each hand, and then she starts a little stack in the firebox, building it carefully.

Her fingers are grimy, splintered, and a little numb from the cold by the time it's all said and done. But when she strikes the long match on the stone of the chimney facing and then carefully holds it to the tinder, she's rewarded with the catch of flames.

It grows brighter, wider, the pale yellow eating through to brilliant orange, and Kate sits back, blows out the match.

The little fire catches the second log, and now it's truly on its way, building higher, dancing along the wood.

Kate stands and lets herself absorb its warmth, its heat, for a moment longer, and then she gets to work.

 **X**

Castle wakes slowly, his limbs too heavy to move.

The nudge comes again, something at his shoulder, and he finally rolls to his back and opens his eyes.

"Kate?" he roughs, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. She's standing over him wearing his plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, carrying a tray. "What's wrong?"

She laughs softly and sinks down to the mattress at his hip, lays the breakfast tray over his knees even as he struggles to sit up. "Nothing's wrong."

"Oh." He scrubs the sleep out of his eyes and looks down - at the burgeoning plates, rolls, sausage, sautéed kale and spinach, and eggs - the creamy scrambled kind that she's made for him before, the kind that takes _time_ , all that diligent stirring, doing nothing else. "You made me breakfast. Lots of breakfast. When did the power come back on?"

He lifts his head but she's shaking hers. Her fingers curl at his calf over the blankets and he can't understand.

"You brought in the wood," she says then. She leans into him and so softly kisses his lips. He can feel her, like a faint caress, before she sits back. "So I made a fire."

He brought in the wood, so she made the fire.

"Sit with me," he says, tugging on her sleeve.

"Oh, I'm planning on it. Scoot over, babe." She crawls in while he shifts, and her body presses all against his, warm and smoke-scented.

Is this all it takes? Show up with an offering and she'll provide the spark.

 **X**


	16. December 16

**Wintersong**

* * *

 **December 16**

 **X**

 _full of love_

 **X**

At seven that morning she commandeers the public library, which still has power, and convinces them to open early for her alone. Castle leaves her sitting before one of the public computers trying to download skype with the librarian's help so that she can video conference the Twelfth's weekly roll call meeting.

He makes himself scarce, thinking only to avoid showing up on her video stream, but he wanders through town square trying to keep warm. The wind is blowing the already-fallen snow in fresh piles, pushing it against windowpanes and up the closed store doors.

He can't go far - it was a trek just to get to the public library only one block down from their little cottage - but he's astonished to see a line of townspeople ranged along the street, like some kind of monster-movie scene or an old western - but staged in the driven snow.

He spots Hugh, the cottage owner, and he heads over, winding through the chain of people and practically climbing over snow piles and snow banks until he can talk to the man. His jeans are soaking wet again, melting snow, but he at least has thermals on underneath - Kate made him, and he appreciates it now.

"What's going on?"

Hugh is carrying a shovel over his shoulder, and he jerks his chin to the line of people. "Snow plow will be here by noon. But we're going to unearth as much of Broad Street as we can. It's a snow street and people need to get to supplies. I know we do - how about you two in the cottage?"

"Yeah," he admits, nodding slowly. "And a phone charger if we can." They weren't very careful about rationing food or paying attention to what they've used up - neither of them still expected to be here for the week. "How can I help?"

"Mac's passing out shovels, if you're up to it."

"You saw the back porch when you came to check on us," Castle boasts. "I'm up to it."

"Different shoveling out a street," Hugh answers, but he shakes his head and claps Castle on the back. "Alright, alright. Don't say I didn't warn you."

 **X**

"He did warn me," Castle says grimly, cradling one hand in the other.

She came out of the library with her precinct under her control - although remotely - only to discover Castle with his coat off, sweat staining his plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up like it was a balmy day in the Hamptons. She managed to scold him back into his coat even as he explained how he joined the chain gang - which yes, cleared the snow street - but it's left his hands cramped and blistered by the effort.

"My hero," she murmurs anyway, leaning in over his wounded paw to kiss the center of his palm. Blisters have formed, a few have broken the skin and split, and he keeps scooping snow from passing landmarks as they walk, using it to numb his hands. "What's in the backpack?"

"Supplies," he says cheerfully, rallying now that she's acknowledged his victory. "We cleared out the hardware and the grocery store, so I did some shopping. We've been running low."

"I noticed," she sighs, curling her arm through his as they walk. Walk rather than hike, rather than _climb_ back to the cottage. It's an improvement. "You all did a very good job, Castle."

"How's the Twelfth?" he asks, his arm pressing against his side so that her hand is trapped.

She doesn't mind. "All good. Under control. Roll call went smoothly, my department heads reported in, and Esposito has really stepped up."

"With Ryan's help, I'm sure."

"Well, Ryan is part of a joint case with Vice. He's pretty busy, and it's not as routine as I would like, so Espo has been on top of things for me as well as worrying about Kevin. Which means," she pauses, nudging her shoulder into his, "that you and I have flown under the radar all week."

"Oh." He nods and smooths his hand over hers only to wince and curl his fingers back into that loose, protective fist. "That's good. Does Vikram know I'm here with you?"

"No," she says quietly. "He doesn't know exactly why I'm here either. I've told everyone I was interviewing an inmate at Connecticut Northern when the storm hit. Vikram thinks so too."

"Oh?" That quiver of his eyebrow which means he wants more but can't find a polite or charming way to ask.

"Are we doing this?" she murmurs, keeping her fingers curled at his arm, not letting go. "Talking about it now?"

"No," he answers. Decisive. "No, we're not. We're going back to the cottage to make some lunch."

 **X**

Castle sits absolutely still, while Kate cares for his hands. She found a first aid kit in the bathroom with mostly not-expired items, and after she washed the dirt from his palms, she sat him down on the lid of the toilet seat and began playing doctor.

Kate is perched on the edge of the clawfoot tub, their knees together; she cradles both of his hands in her lap and smooths aloe into his blisters. It feels so good that he almost can't breathe, his every exhale timed to the drag of her fingers across his palm as she unfolds his hand. Her hair swings forward and tickles the skin at his forearms, makes his chest tight.

"Mm, that will work for now," she murmurs. She's not even looking at him, studying his blisters and cracked skin. "Okay, band-aids? Might not stay, but I think it will keep it clean for a while, at least."

He makes some rumbling assenting noise and she leans forward to snag the box of band-aids from the counter. Her breast brushes the top of his arm and he loves that sensation, how it tumbles awareness and want and appreciation all through him.

She bandages his knuckles first, the places where he accidentally hit icy embankments or scraped as he brought the shovel into the snow. And then she has to maneuver a few band-aids into a patchwork in the grooves of his palms where the blisters formed and broke open. Her fingers circle his wrist as she finishes, a strange flutter of his pulse in response, and then she leans in over him and kisses the heels of his hands, one after another.

She still has a grip on his forearms when she stands, looking down at him with equal parts tenderness and anguish, as if she's seen too much suffering, as if even this small thing is too much right now. "How's that feel?" she murmurs.

He nods blankly and stands at her tug, finds himself somehow taller and broader than her. He forgets that she's not larger than life, she's not the warrior-goddess in some Roman myth - she's just a human being, like himself, flawed and struggling, loving imperfectly. She's looking at him, a question in her raised eyebrow, unaware of his thoughts, and he can't help wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off her feet in his embrace.

Kate chuckles, breath rushing out and skimming hotly at his neck. She unwinds an arm and curls it at his back, strong, and her cheek nudges against his. "You okay?" She strokes the hair at his nape. "Just a few blisters. They'll heal."

He laughs because sometimes they are both so dense, because their unspoken communication is so good that sometimes they forget they can't read each other's minds. "I'm okay," he promises, setting her back on her feet. "Just appreciating you."

"I'm all for being appreciated," she smiles, patting his chest and giving his lips a soft kiss. "But you're the one who did all the work, babe."

"I did, didn't I?" he brags. "I helped shovel out a whole street."

"You did," she says, her hum at the end telling him she's pleased with him.

He really likes making her proud, _her_. He made Kate Beckett proud, and if that's their functional dysfunction, he'll take it.

 **X**

They're sharing a phone charger, the last on the store shelf when he made his run for supplies - along with two more plaid shirts because he's sharing, and a pair of boots for him, the workman boots that make him look like a big lumberjack. But it's kind of fun sharing the charger with her, the generator cranking out just enough power to heat up the water and restore their dying phones.

Hugh calls out a warning before he turns it off again, and Kate scrambles from the kitchen to get her phone plugged in before the very last of it is gone. Castle chuckles at her antics but he doesn't mind her stealing the last of the juice. He sits in the towel-stuffed windowseat (which keeps out the drafts), feeling pleasantly sore (he tells himself it's pleasant), and watches her with her phone.

And then the lights die, the rattle of water in the radiator as the boiler goes, and Kate sighs in satisfaction, tugging the cord from her phone. She rises and sits beside him on the wide ledge, leans into his arm to put her weight against him, and he doesn't mind propping her up.

Hugh calls out his good-bye, disappearing with the generator before Castle can so much as wave, and they're alone in the cottage once more.

"How'd it go?" he murmurs, rubbing his thumb at the place where her thigh muscle joins her knee. She shivers and jerks under the deep pressure, pressing closer. He knows she holds her tension here, and he digs deeper. "You get all your email?"

"Think so. Smart of you, work offline until I could send it."

"I do have a few good ideas," he murmurs, turning to brush his lips against her forehead. Not really a kiss, just speaking against her skin. "I checked the weather channel app while you were emailing."

"Uh-oh. Do we have to leave?"

He grins and tries to hide it, but she must feel it because her cheeks flush and she ducks in against him, that self-conscious side of her that he so rarely sees.

"You know what I meant," she mutters.

"I don't want to leave either," he promises. "And no, we don't. Not yet. The bridge is still being repaired and the roads aren't cleared yet. The snow plow came through here but only managed half of the snow streets. And another foot of snow is predicted for later this evening."

"Espo said they got maybe a few flurries but nothing stuck."

"Thank goodness for small favors," he smiles. "Easier to justify taking nearly a week off when there's no crisis in the city."

She raps her knuckles on the wood of the seat and glances at him. "Actually, I told _my_ boss to go ahead and count me PTO for the rest of the week. And I'd remote in every morning for updates and organizing the troops."

Paid time off? "You did?"

"I don't see us getting out of here any time soon," she murmurs. "And I don't exactly want to."

He breathes sharp and fast against the top of her head and his arm tightens around her shoulders. "I don't want to either."

"Then, since I've finished with captain's business, I have an idea."

He straightens up, stops playing with the hem of her plaid shirt. "I love your ideas."

She nods and stands up, taking his still-wounded hand in her own. "You said have our own Christmas, right? Well, we're missing a few things."

 **X**

She twines their fingers together on the walk, even though it makes it more difficult, keeping balance where the snow has piled up. They're limited to the businesses open on the snow streets, because no one else could get into work to open the rest of them.

She's still wearing his plaid shirt, and underneath that, the black tights and jeans she brought up with her. She's kept the leather jacket - it's lined after all - but they've added items over the last few days that keep her warm enough so long as Castle is cutting the wind. Gloves, a scarf, a knit hat that flops down on top, but right now she's not looking for warmer clothing.

"In here," she says.

"A pet store?" He gives her a funny look. "Kate. I know we both really loved Royal, but at our-"

"No," she laughs, tugging on his arm to bring him inside with her. "They have pet food. Bird seed. Dried fruit. Organic stuff."

He huffs. "I thought we were doing okay with the cans of beans and-"

Her laughter erupts, and she hides her face in his shoulder when she disrupts the myna birds and canaries near the front in their small wire cages. Castle is chuckling at her and drawing her out of his side, and she takes his hand, carefully, his poor hands, and pulls him down the aisle.

"Not for us," she promises. "It's part of my idea."

"Bird seed," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Among other things. You'll see." She lets it remain mysterious, and he follows of course, letting her load up his arms with the things she picks out, her idea morphing and resolving as she sees what's available.

They purchase their pet food and move on to the hardware store, the bags stuffed in Castle's backpack, and then they acquire one more bag from the grocery store to add to the rest. When they're finished, she guides him back towards their winter cottage, hanging on to him by the sleeve of his coat, letting his warmth seep into her.

"So what are we doing, Kate?"

"Having our own Christmas," she tells him. "A little early. But you did say we needed to incorporate new traditions."

"With bird seed, peanut butter, and spooled twine?"

"You'll see," she says again, trying to smother the smirk that wants to streak across her face.

She gives up, letting him see it, and all he does is shake his head and follow.

He always does.

She is so grateful for that.

 **X**

Castle allows himself to be led - through the cottage where she collects a package of cranberries, a carrot from the crisper in the refrigerator - and then down the back porch to the yard. He has an idea for building a snowman, thinks that's what she's doing with him, but when she troops right through the pristine white lawn for the trees beyond, he has no idea.

At the footbridge that arcs over the little creek, she waits for him, patient and secretive, that reserve that has always been characteristic of Beckett. He reaches out and takes her hand gingerly, but she laces their fingers, knitting them together. Their feet make tracks across the bridge, side by side, clean and stark. At the base of the bridge, she guides them a little off the path to new growth, an area where the trees are farther apart and new saplings have grown up, meager and skinny, looking cold in the snow.

Kate stops there and releases his hand, gestures for the backpack still on his shoulders. He swings it down and hands it over and she deposits everything on a wide log that comes up from the slow-moving creek, dividing the bank from the rise of trees. Before them is a cluster of new pine, spindly and skinny.

"This will work," she says, and kneels right down in the snow. She starts unpacking the bags and pulling everything out. "Here, take the twine and roll it in the peanut butter, like this, good and thick, just drop it in. And I'll shake out the bird seed over it."

He has no idea what they're doing out here - feeding the birds? - but he's game. And she's tugged her gloves off to work, so that he sees the pretty cream of her skin against the dark slash of the bag, the stark white of the snow, working as swift as a bird herself.

He pries open the peanut butter and follows her instructions, getting the grocery bag messy and smeared with the stuff, but that doesn't seem to be a problem. Kate shakes out bird seed over the peanut buttered-string and he helps, rolling it where she can get the spots she's missed. She's tied cranberries into it in knots, evenly spaced, and he's completely baffled by their bird feeder.

"Alright," she murmurs, her bottom lip tucked into her teeth. "Here, hold this end. Come with me."

When she rises to her feet, he stands as well, follows her to a three-foot pine sapling that's huddled against the wind. She leans in and ties her end of the hemp twine to the lowest branch and then comes to him, her fingers trailing along the sticky string.

"Like this," she says softly. Her hand guides his and her hip bumps into him, nudges him forward and they do a slow dance around the thin tree, looping and lacing the bottom branches with string like an intricate winter maypole.

"Oh," he breathes. "We have a tree."

He feels her grip the back of his coat, her chin dip to the top of his shoulder. She says nothing, but they're both arrested, the light slanting steeply across the white snow, the broad limbs of the woods overhead, and this little pine with its garland of cranberries and bird seed.

"It's really beautiful, isn't it?" he murmurs.

He steps in and ties his end of the hemp to the branch, snow falling from its pine needles and showering over his hands. And then he turns back around and captures his wife in both of those blistered, ragged hands, cups her face to turn her up to him.

She's crying. He kisses the corner of her eye and tastes the salt and light, the sun struggling in through the dark of the woods, and he kisses her again.

"It's okay," he says softly. "It's okay. You're forgiven."

"I've hurt you-"

"I hurt you first," he says. "We've both disappeared on each other. But in the end, it doesn't matter."

"I don't deserve-"

"That's what Christmas is about. Forgiveness. I love you; you're forgiven. Help me decorate our tree, so we can celebrate like we should."

She nods into the frame of his hands and her tears slip away.

 **X**


	17. December 17

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 17_**

 ** _X_**

 _stay with me because_

 **X**

Kate wakes sharply, the taste of blood filling her mouth and the smell of gunpowder in her flaring nostrils.

She's immediately struggling out of bed, only to fall to her knees on the floor, stunned by the freezing temperatures in the room and the shock of cold air on her sweat-drenched skin. But she can't do much more than rock back and forth, caught in the grip of a panic attack so fierce, she wants to die.

 _die die die_

It takes longer than usual to burn out, but when the terror recedes to mere heart-thudding, throat-tightening paranoia, she can crawl away from the bed towards the door and finally out.

The depth of the darkness in the hall nearly breaks her, halts her in her tracks. She whimpers before she can catch herself, slumping back against the wall. She's wild-eyed still, unable to let go, unable to be released, and she endures through the aftershock, the shaking hands and hot sweat, the fist around her heart.

She couldn't speak to call his name even if she wanted to. And she doesn't want to.

It's worse when he crowds over her, trying to help, trying to touch, and just thinking about all that broad male distress makes her own double, and she has to press her forehead to her knees and breathe.

Bad dream. That's all. Bad dream, and she can breathe, she's alive, the scars are _scars_ and _hers_ \- not his - not jagged wounds spilling her guts out to the grass.

She presses two fingers against the line at her hip, _his and hers_ Castle said when he saw it, and that really doesn't help, makes the tears start now.

She's crying when it finally breaks, the panic attack dropping her as if from a great height, and she lays her cheek to the wood floor of the hall and simply lets herself cry.

 **X**

She's surprised her dad answers the call, considering the hour, considering she's using the burner phone.

"Dad?"

"Katie? I thought it might be you."

"How'd you know?"

"Rick told me you both have new cell phones. For his PI business. I figured a blocked number would be yours."

"Sorry to call so early," she croaks.

"I was up," he answers. Too easily.

"Liar." But it would make her smile if she wasn't so washed out. "You weren't up."

"You got me, lying flat on my back. But about to be up," he amends. "What has you calling this early?"

"I was - up. Bad dream. Panic attack."

Her father is silent, though his silence speaks volumes. He has always been good at cross-examination because of his infinite patience; she probably picked up her instincts for interrogation from him.

"Rick is here," she tells him, confessing. It closes up her throat.

"He's there. That's good. I'm proud of you for that."

She makes a noise of assent, dissent, something. "I can't - seem to do what I should when it comes to him. I'm being so selfish, Dad."

"Selfish is spending time with your husband?"

She presses her forehead to the wall, closing her eyes. "Keeping him."

"And it's giving you bad dreams and panic attacks? I think this is where you start telling me the whole story."

"I..." She shouldn't. But all those carefully constructed walls she tried to fix in place again were knocked over in the first hard gust of wind, the first snowfall. "Remember when I told you that my old team from the Attorney General's office were all killed? Dad, it's - because of a search I did while I was there. It returned some results and they're the ones who took it up, trying to do the right thing, look into it, and now they're dead."

"And this has to do with William Bracken being murdered in jail, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she says tightly.

"You're involved in this now."

"You say involved like... I'm part of it," she says, her voice small. The way she accused Castle of being involved when he kept secrets from her about the case.

"Aren't you part of it?" her dad says. "Whatever it is you're doing that I assume is so dangerous you're leaving your husband. Except for - whatever this is. Some kind of rendezvous."

Her throat tightens, but it's not anxiety this time, just shame. Her father calling her out.

But he makes a gruff noise. "You don't have to tell me what you're doing. Not sure I should know."

"I think it's better I don't," she says roughly. "Castle is already too involved."

"Well, at least there's that. Castle's involved. Eases my mind knowing he has your back. The two of you."

Kate goes still. Her father is lecturing her, isn't he? This is a lecture - in the roundabout way he's adopted with her since he got sober years ago. He never tells her no, he just talks all around it.

"You know why I'm relieved?" Jim goes on. "Because he reminds you of your limits but makes you believe you can do anything. Good combination. That's rare, you know. To find someone who makes you better but loves you as you are."

"Rare," she echoes. And she could lose it. "I don't know why I'm doing this. Why I keep finding myself in the middle of this. Running right at it, Dad."

"You are your mother's daughter. You stand up for what's right, even when it's hard. Even when it's hard on the rest of us, as well. Run right at it, Katie, don't run away. I'm not saying don't do this. I'm saying do it smart."

"I don't even know how anymore, how to do it smart, how to keep from getting lost."

"Your mom always said life wouldn't give you more than you can handle."

"I'm not sure I'm doing such a good job handling it," she sighs, tilting her head back. The burner phone is getting hot against her ear and she wants to crawl back into bed, lie down with him and wait for the sun. "I don't know what's right."

"You've figured it out before. You will again." He clears his throat. "I hope you wait to make any big decisions until you've had a good night's rest. Don't let the nightmares and panic attacks do your thinking for you."

"Yeah. You're right," she murmurs, wrapping an arm around her knees. She can see the snow through the kitchen window, the way the moon beams from the drifts, so much light out there. "I won't."

"Good night, Katie."

 **X**

He finds Kate building up the fire in the kitchen, crouching on the hearth as she feeds wadded paper into the flames.

"Morning," he says, rubbing his hand down his jaw.

She smiles at him, but she looks a little rough around the edges. He drops his hand and offers it to her and she takes it, letting him pull her to her feet.

"What did you want to do today?" he says, hoping to ease a smile out of her. "We could walk into town for coffee-"

"Can't," she says shortly. "Snowed last night, another foot, and now we're truly stuck. At least until we shovel out."

"Have Hugh and Madi called?" he says, frowning. Shoveling is not high on his list right now; his hands still ache.

"Hugh called and told us to stay put." Her head tilts up, eyes sly - or trying to be. "I'm inclined to take his advice."

"He would know." Castle sighs, putting on a pout for her. "But if we're stuck inside, I'm going to go stir crazy."

"I thought, actually..." She pauses and plants her hands on his chest, either to force him to keep his distance or to anchor herself to him.

"You thought what?"

"I thought we could finally talk. About the real things, about - what I'm doing to you."

And suddenly, the whole mood alters. The cheery fire, the cozy kitchen, his wife in his plaid shirt - it disappears as he realizes he has nothing to say. Or. He has so many things they tangle in a tight, hard knot in his throat - and have been tangled for months now - rendering him speechless.

She gives a brief nod of her head and steps back. "You shower, if you can stand the cold water, and I'll make breakfast, and when we're both a little more with it, we'll do this."

"O-kay," he stutters out.

He's not so sure this is a good idea.

 **X**

She waits until he's finished eating, which he appreciates - she's remembered that he hates being distracted from the pleasure of food with this kind of thing.

"You eat anything?" he asks, nursing his coffee as she removes his plate and rinses it in the sink. "Kate."

She turns back. "No. Can't."

He nods, knowing that's how she is. "What time did you get up?"

She gives a half shrug, but he knows that she knows exactly what time she woke. After a longer silence, she shuts off the water in the sink and leaves the dishes where they are, comes back to him, still standing. Like she doesn't have permission to sit. "Around three."

He reaches out and plants his hand on her hip, tugging only enough to say hello, not to make her come to him. His coffee is still scalding from the fire and it warms his fingers. "Around three. You were in bed when I woke."

"I laid awake," she says, nodding.

"So, talk then, Kate." He tries for gentle, easy, but he's tired too. Tired of this. "You laid awake. Thinking about - how did you put it? - what you're doing to me."

She nods. "Us. What am I'm doing to us." Suddenly Kate sinks down to the other chair, putting her head in her hands. "I really thought we'd get this knocked out sooner. We had - so many leads at first."

"Your mom's case took over a decade," he reminds her.

Her shoulders come up. "I don't know what I thought."

"You thought something was going to happen to me. What made you decide that?"

"It was Rita," she sighs, rubbing her forehead.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" he growls. "Rita, the woman who says she's my stepmother."

"Castle-"

"She's not family, Kate. _He's_ not family. He played us - he played _me_. He dumped a body in your jurisdiction so he could control the flow of information, so he could do whatever the hell he wanted. And then he let us go as _decoys_ to flush out his guy. Whom he killed, point blank. He's not on our side."

"Rita came through for me. Which was on his orders, for lack of a better word. I think they trade off looking out for you, Rick."

He's struggling here, trying not to throttle her, make her see. "They're not looking out for me. They're after their own agenda. You were the one who warned me, who told me not to trust him."

"Kind of my m.o., isn't it?" she mutters. Bitterness leaking into her tone. "Not trusting anyone."

"In his case, you're right. End of story." He takes a rough swallow of coffee and feels it burn down his throat, scalding. "And anyway, what does Rita and my father know about any of this?"

"She's the one who knew about an investigation into LockSat. She gave us the name - the details. She... told me our only option was to run."

"You don't run," Castle scoffs. He feels disjointed though, all his pieces shifted out of place. But Kate - Kate he knows, Kate is steady. "You would never run. Even after getting your head bashed in, you made me turn the car around and go back."

A faint smile flickers over her face. "Well, yes. I wasn't willing to - lose you. My life. I wasn't going to just turn tail and run. I was fighting for us."

"I know you were," he says fiercely. _Proud._ He's proud of her, of how she fights. He doesn't want anything else. "I know you _are_. You're fighting for us. But ten years? I don't want our life on hold that long, Kate. At least if we're together, if we're investigating together, then that's _life._ Otherwise we're just two people having an affair."

Her face blanches. "I..." She lifts a hand to her mouth; she looks like she's going to be sick.

He was kind of harsh. But it's only the truth.

"You were right when you said not to trust them," Kate finally answers. Her voice is rough. "And I don't, Rick. I don't trust them. Rita says they're investigating LockSat, that they have been for a long time, but they never get any closer. That's why I haven't called on any of those contacts, why we've kept it a two-man operation. I don't trust that Rita's investigation doesn't leak like a sieve, and I am completely unwilling to put you at that kind of risk."

"I've been at risk before. A dirty bomb nearly blew up the whole city and I was there-"

"Because I've been selfish, keeping you with me. Alexis was right. This wasn't your job. I took you, and I - I made this monster because I couldn't face doing it alone. But I'm done with being selfish. I won't do to Alexis what was done to me."

"Don't worry. I don't think you're quite up to Special Forces caliber. You hold your knife like an amateur."

Kate sways back in her chair. "That's not funny." Her mouth flattens, her eyes. "That is _not_ something to joke about."

He flinches. "Ignore me. Stupid coping mechanism," he says weakly.

"You don't get to _cope_ about my mother," she chokes out. "You - of all people-"

"I know," he urges. "I know. It just came out of my mouth."

"You always do that. You stomp around inside my hurt like it's nothing."

He swipes a hand down his face. "Give it a rest, Kate-"

"No. This is part of it." She presses her fist into her chest, her voice rising, stronger, angry maybe. "From the very beginning, you have always managed to say the exact thing to make me feel so - make me feel so-"

She stops; he can see her chest rising and falling, her heart beating in her throat. All the ways they're wrong for each other.

"You make me _feel_ ," she accuses. Her face falls, eyes flooding with emotion. "You make everything alive again. And I don't know what happens if you're gone." She buries her head in her hands. "What happens to the world without you?"

He grabs her by the wrists, wraps his fingers around her hands, dragging them away from her face, hanging on. "The safest place for me has always been right here with you. And vice versa. You think the world could get along without _you_?"

"You should never have been anywhere near that dirty bomb. You should have left the city with your family. And, _God._ The hired killers, the guns pointed at your face, the bullets, the biological weapons-" She gives up, shaking her head, the lament unspoken but endless in her eyes.

He tightens his grip on her hands. "You forget. I was the one who saved our lives from that dirty bomb. And speaking of bombs, if I hadn't come back with coffee, you would have what? Made your peace and offered yourself to the inevitable? No. Unacceptable, Kate. You said the same in the refrigerated car, how you always expected to die by a bullet. No. I want in on this with if only to stave off your morbid sense of inevitability. This will not be fatal."

"No one is dying," she answers fiercely. "That is the whole point of doing it this way. Alexis deserves to have her father. You and I deserve to have our own family, free and clear, nothing hanging over our heads. I know I bring all this - complication - into our marriage, but for _once,_ I'm putting our family first."

"Our family," he says, feeling hollow. Last year, the conversations they had, the way they began to dream together, how it was only a matter of timing. And now. "And if we would've had kids right now, in the middle of this, what would you have done?"

"I couldn't have done this. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Castle, dropping it wouldn't have done any good. It would have been the worst decision I could've made, turning a blind eye. I'm not doing this because I'm noble. I'm doing it because he will _come after us_."

"What happens when it's done? What then? Because you seem to be diving right into your obsessions with an uncomfortable level of zeal."

"When it's truly done, then it's done, Castle."

He's not convinced and it must show on his face because she leans in, grips his hands.

"We can't let this go. Think of all the times my mother's case came up without our knowing it, even when you were doing it alone. How dangerous that was, running around and investigating, putting our necks on the line without realizing what we were stepping in. With our luck, how likely is it that we could stay out of LockSat's business this time either? I'm the captain of a whole precinct, Castle. At some point in my career, cases are going to intersect with his dirty work. And then I'm dead. We're both dead."

Castle hunches his shoulders. "Okay, I'll concede the point. It would be entirely too easy to stumble upon LockSat's interests by accident. You're right. But you're not hearing me, Kate. I'm not saying don't investigate. I will never tell you to not do your job. You are the best one for it."

"Why does that feel like an insult? I am damn good at my job, and - and that's the only way I know to be good at the rest. I am a good wife because I'm a good cop first. A good daughter because I'm a good cop."

"It's not that one makes the other, Kate. Being a good wife or daughter isn't only-"

"You don't think it's not the same for you?" she says sharply. "You're a good investigator because you're a good writer. A good _husband_ because you're so good at those character sketches, because you take what you observe and apply it to behavior and m.o. and - and even romance."

"I didn't say they don't inform each other. But your being a good cop isn't the only route through which you become a good wife, mother, daughter, any of it. It's one way, but it's not the only way. That's all I'm saying, Kate. It's not the only way."

"It's the only way I see." She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I don't see any other way to do this."

"Okay," he says, feeling it slipping out of his hands. "You don't see any other way. But I do."

She lifts her head, curls her hands into fists, her body getting small. "Don't ask me not to be a cop."

"I'm _not_ ," he insists. "I wouldn't ever say that. Don't you think I know how it feels to be _called_ to something? I'm a writer; you're a cop. I would never ask for less from you. Only more. I am asking for more."

"Then... then what is this about? You understand but..."

He tries again. "What happens when we put this to rest and something else comes up? Some rogue element we didn't catch, and they come looking for you? For us. What happens when LockSat's daughter comes calling, wanting _her_ revenge?"

"It's not a comic book," she mutters.

"Oh, no?" he bites out. "Are you sure, because you've been doing a damn fine job of playing the super hero. Lone Vengeance has nothing on you."

"Lone Vengeance wore a _mask_ and went around like she was Manhattan's Batman. I'm not taking on every criminal enterprise, Castle, I am _only_ looking to keep us alive."

He rubs both hands down his face, hoping he gets through to her, that she at least sees that there are possibilities here.

"I can't quit," Kate sighs. "I wish I could, but I can't leave it out there, knowing it will come back to bite me, waiting for the sword to fall."

"No, I know. I don't want you to quit. You're the super hero, and I'm the intrepid reporter who knows your secret identity."

"Castle," she huffs.

"No, don't dismiss me," he murmurs. Her shoulders stiffen. He leans in against the table and finds her knees, squeezes. "It's true, Kate. It's how I see you. Clark Kent or Superman, and I get to be your Lois Lane."

"You said," she accuses, "plucky sidekicks get killed."

"Was Lois Lane a sidekick or a-"

"Partner," she whispers.

"Partners. I know your secret identity, Kate, and I _love_ you for all aspects of you. The badass super hero and the mild-mannered captain of the Twelfth precinct."

She lets out a breath. "But it - separates us."

"It doesn't have to," he tells her. "Superman and Lois Lane weren't separated."

"Ignoring most of comic book history there, aren't you?"

"Go with it, Beckett."

She scowls, but the corners of her lips twitch. "I can't believe you've turned this into a comic book."

"I'd say this is a graphic novel. Pretty classy, you and me. Besides, you love comic books."

Her head tilts up and she gives him that sweet shy smile. "Yeah. I do." Her hands come to rest on top of his at her knees. "Love you more though."

"Be a superhero, Beckett." He wants to push aside the table, make grand and sweeping statements, have her in his arms. But he can see she's riding the edge of uncertainty, that she's deep in the mire.

Her throat works, her eyes fall to their hands tangled over her knees, and then lift, drifting towards the window.

He strokes over her denim-clad thighs. "Whatever life holds for us - whether it's the boring future that's been predicted: three kids, you a senator, me writing literary drivel - or it's badass villain-slaying with kryptonite a possibility around every corner - doesn't matter to me. So long as I get to be there."

She studies the window for a long moment. "What if being a superhero gets you killed?"

"At least I got you."

"Castle, I'm serious." She turns her eyes to his. "It's not safe."

"Did I ask you for safe?" he calls softly. "In our marriage vows, did we once promise safety to each other? I don't want safe. I want us."

He thinks - he hopes - he sees a glimmer of something in her eyes.

And that it's not just the reflection of all that snow muffling their world.

 **X**


	18. December 18

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 18**_

 **X**

 _by the fireside with you_

 **X**

He makes up the fire and then attempts breakfast for them both, pancakes from the mix because all he has to do is add water. While they eat, she sits so close to him at the kitchen table that he can feel the bounce of her knee rocking both of their chairs.

She says nothing about trying to get home.

She washes the dishes in the sink with cold water while he heats the kettle for another round of coffee. His hands have begun to heal, feel less raw, but when she's finished washing up, she comes to the table with their meager collection of first aid, standing before him.

He curls his free hand around the back of her leg while she doctors the one with the worst of his blisters. He can't help canting into her, his forehead pressing against her hip. She touches the back of his head in a caress, resumes her ministrations.

He just stays.

Whatever words he had, he used up yesterday. He's said _good morning_ and _your turn_ and _did you throw my shirt in the bag_ but he hasn't said the most important thing. The one thing that matters.

"I love you, Kate."

She goes still for a second, but it echoes like an eternity.

And then she finishes taping the bandage over his blisters and sinks down, straddling his knees and squeezing her legs at his waist. Her arm loops around his neck and she presses herself close, chest to chest.

He can feel how fast her heart beats. He can feel her shake with it when he wraps her in an embrace.

"I love you, too," she answers finally.

But it's not an answer either.

 **X**

"Phone's dead," he tells her, returning to the living room. Warmer here, close to the kitchen where the fire is going, but it's freezing everywhere else. Snowbound these last few days, and the romance has worn off. "Yours?"

She nods and holds up the burner. "Mine too. Both."

"Alexis says hi." He sinks down to couch with her and she shifts immediately, redrawing herself beside him. Her head nestles in at the curve under his jaw and into the space between his chin and his shoulder. "She says she hopes you're not going to lose your job."

She chuckles. "No. I won't lose my job. 1PP needs me."

"They say that?"

"To my face," she says. "Rising young star in the police department, thought they're just blowing smoke. But I took a look around and remember the pinning ceremony? Not a single woman under fifty-five but me."

"Mm, I do remember. I'm the one who pointed it out to you."

"Right. Exactly. So."

"So your job is secure." He holds her closer, kisses her forehead because she still has the book open on her lap and the blanket wrapped around her legs.

"Unless I do something egregious. Which I might."

"Wouldn't put it past you."

She grins - he can't see it, but he can feel it. She does that thing where she presses her lips flat and turns her face into him as if to hide it. Makes him smile back, pleased.

"What about you?" she mumbles into his shirt, finally lifts her head. "The PI business?"

"Alexis has been clearing my cases. And taking on new ones. She's turned into Veronica Mars."

Kate's lips twitch. "Bad thing?"

"No. I'm just glad she feels passionate about something. One thing. She was worried for a while that she didn't know what her one thing would be."

"Like you and writing," she murmurs. Her fingers come up suddenly and he freezes when she touches his lips. It's so strange, how she does that from time to time - like she's newly discovering him.

"Me and writing," he agrees. "Or you and the NYPD."

"Two different kinds of callings, but still a calling," she sighs. "Have you written anything this week?"

"No."

She shifts, sits up. "You should." A shrug of her shoulders and her brow furrows. "If you're not inspired, I mean, don't feel forced-"

"I can always write, Kate."

"Always?" Her voice is quiet. Hopeful maybe.

"With you? Yeah." He's trying not to overuse that word, trying to let it retain its meaning. He catches her hand where she's let it drop, squeezes her fingers. "I think I will write. If I can find paper."

"I know where the paper is," she says, hopping up immediately.

Before he can protest the lack of her, she's hurrying towards the bedroom.

Well, maybe he'll write while she reads.

 **X**

Her fingers run through his hair, one strand at a time, flopping back to lay over his forehead. His eyes are closed but she knows he's not asleep.

She couldn't sleep either. They've had to bring the mattress and bed covers into the dining room, push the table out of the way to be close to the fire. She'll bank the logs when they're too sleepy to tend it properly, but for now, the heat tightening the skin on her face and the warmth of him lying across her thighs is enough.

She lightly scratches her nails through his scalp, waiting until she hears the rumble in his chest. _Kitten_. She smiles and cups the side of his face, her fingers dancing at his jaw, her thumb to the curve of his cheek.

When he speaks, she feels it. "Hey, Kate? That day Lanie brought Dr Murray to see you."

She lets out a breath, palm to his ear. Her head is propped on her other hand, her elbow against a dining room chair to keep her upright, and for a moment, that hard wood under her tricep and the heat of Castle's head in her lap are the only things grounding her to the here and now.

"That day," Castle goes on, "we learned that Jack Coonan was killed by the same man who murdered your mother... and you walked out. You left it alone."

She fists her hand under her cheek and nods, even though he can't see it. "I ran," she admits. "It was too much for me. I was afraid I would lose him."

"I never thought I'd see you run," he sighs. His eyes slowly open, but they're on the fire in the hearth, not on her, and that's easier - though not by much.

"I didn't run for long," she says grimly.

"No, you didn't." His eyes shift to trace over her face; she can feel the way he studies her, the way he always has. "And when you came to my door, Kate, I told you then that I would do _anything_ you needed. Including nothing. If that's what you want. And that is a promise I will continue to keep. If that's what you want."

"You'll do nothing?"

"Yes."

She breaks his gaze, shifting hers to the flames. The hungry mouths that devour the logs, hypnotic, deadly. He remarked how beautiful it was, the light and shadow around the room, romantic, and yet all she can see are the dangers, the threat, how diligent she has to remain, how easily everything could go up in smoke.

"It's still your mother's case," he says quietly. "I learned long ago to respect that, what it means. You just let me know."

She curls her fingers in and they snag in his hair, and when she looks at him, his eyes are closed, his forehead nudging into the curve of her palm.

She nudges back. "That day I ran. I met up with my dad. He talked sense into me."

"Whatever your dad said, it worked. You came back stronger, fiercer."

"Was he right, though?" she wonders. "To push me towards that rabbit hole, to nudge me into falling. I was afraid to lose that one, to have it slip out of my fingers after ten _years_. But Rick, now I'm afraid to lose - so much more than answers. I'm afraid to lose the only truth that matters."

"I know you want to put LockSat-"

"Not that," she sighs, smoothing her thumb against the furrow in his brow. "Us. You. You are what matters to me."

His head turns into her lap, his lips graze the slope of her thigh. But he says nothing.

She studies the firelight on his skin and tries to a fathom a world in which flames signify only romance, not disaster.

"My dad told me that night - _what if this is how your mom is reaching out to you_? And that stuck with me, that this case fell in my lap at just the right time, to remind me that it wasn't hopeless, that the truth was out there - and if you whistle the X-Files theme, Castle-" she growls as his lips purse "-I will hurt you."

He chuckles, and she can smile back, already lighter, already releasing the tension of firelight on his skin. Her husband in the glow of the flames.

"Do you believe in that kind of thing?" she asks quietly. "In your universe of magic, do the dead reach back to us and try to point out the right path?"

"After working with you, seeing how some things crop up again and again, like a theme in our story, yeah. I believe."

She lets out a long sigh. "That night, I thought my dad was right. That it was a sign, having this murder fall in my lap. But I was wrong."

"No-"

"I was wrong about the murder being a sign," she insists. "My mother was trying to reach me, Castle, all along. But it wasn't Jack Coonan's death - it was you. You were my sign."

He lifts his hand and captures hers, squeezing, and then keeps on coming, releasing her hand to slid his fingers in her hair. Where he tugs. Very softly, tugging on her hair. Pulling her pigtails.

"I was going to quit," he says, combing her hair back behind her ear. "I was going to leave the Twelfth. After you were forced to shoot Coonan because of me. I overstepped and you-

"Castle-"

"You said you wanted me around anyway. Because you have a hard job, and I make it easier. Do you still?"

She swallows roughly and tilts her chin down, struggling. "When I said that, Rick, you were just the class clown, not my whole _heart_ -" She stops abruptly because she can't finish that sentence; he meant more to her than that even then.

"We'll have to go home tomorrow - to the city," he says. "Get you back to the Twelfth by Monday."

She nods, still silent. She doesn't _know_ what she thinks anymore.

"You tell me what we're doing here, Kate. You tell me. And we will do that."

She nods again, and he comes up on his elbow, reaches for her. She finds herself canting into his touch, his body warm - licked by firelight - her arms wrapping around him.

He drags her down to the mattress with him, tucking her into his side, right where he wants her. His mouth takes from hers, rough kisses that demand things she can't speak, she will never be able to say right, but she has no trouble pressing answers back into him.

Trading words for feeling, promises for better ones, the kind she makes with her soul, deep, where none of the rest of this can touch, where no one else finds her but him.

 **X**


	19. December 19

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 19**_

 **X**

 _I won't let you go_

 **X**

Castle wakes to find her crouched before the fire, dousing the flames.

Sunlight has made its way through the kitchen window and the back door, throwing pale rectangles along the floor. Kate has on her leather jacket and her boots, and when he sits up, drawing a blanket around his shoulders, she turns.

"Morning," he offers. He's not sure she slept much last night. He did his best to wear her out, but when Kate Beckett is being hounded, she can go for days.

"Hey," she says, sinking back to the edge of the mattress. Her hand covers his ankle through the blankets and the smile she gives him is sad. "The plows have come through."

Oh. The plows have come through.

"I made some phone calls from Madi and Hugh's place," she continues. "It's time to get back, Castle."

He nods, struggling with it. He can tell just by her face that she's already made her decision.

"I rented us a car; they're driving up with it from Hartford. It'll be here in an hour."

He nods again, but he heard an _us_ in there. "Well, have to admit. The snowbound stuff was beginning to wear thin."

She tilts her head, teeth pulling at her lip. "No, it wasn't," she says softly. "Not for you, Castle. You love this stuff."

Yeah. He does. He loves this.

 **X**

Castle has already rolled the bike into the shed where Madi and Hugh said they would look after it for them. She'll send his service to come pick it up once the snow has been cleared and the ice melted from the bridges. Or she'll take a cab one day and drive it back herself; things can be arranged. The bike is the least of her worries right now.

At least the weather took an upswing last night. The world is filled with the trickling sounds of runoff, the gurgle and play of water through the streets and dripping from the limbs. The sun is out, the sky blue.

The car is already here.

"I don't really want to leave," she admits to him, standing on the back porch in all her layers - jeans, leg warmers, tank top, his plaid, the green sweatshirt she bought for him but which she stole, the leather jacket.

"I do," he says, coming up behind her and dropping their bag to the top step. His kiss is a wet one, both the cold and his teeth, and she shivers and nudges him away.

"You do?" Why does she feel bereft at that? She thought he wanted to stay.

"Can't stay forever. And - you know - don't you want to get back to it?" He wriggles his eyebrows at her. "The investigation? This put a big wrench in the works. No wonder if takes you over a decade to solve-"

She shoves on him but he only chuckles, gripping her waist to keep her close to him. She's not a fan of the way he's used her mother's murder as joke fodder these last few days. "What can I say, Castle? You slow me down."

His face blanks, and she realizes she hurt him.

Well. He hurt her. But that's petulant and obviously she's in a bad mood. "No," she sighs. "Quite the opposite. That's part of my problem."

His hand ghosts up her side, touches her cheek before falling away. He picks up the bag and heads for the car to load it in the backseat. "Don't you want to get back to our lives though?"

"Not really." She flinches when he slams the door shut. "I'm scared out of my mind," she says.

Castle grunts and comes back to her, clutches her shoulders and pulls her into him. "Don't be scared. I know it seems daunting, that you're worried you'll lose this one-"

"I'm _terrified_." She can't unfist her hands from his coat. She can't open her eyes. She can't move from this spot for fear of the whole world starting up again. "I can't lose _you._ "

"Well," he says slowly, his fingers sneaking in under her jacket and the sweatshirt. He huffs a little when he finds plaid and then the tank top under that, giving her a baleful look for all the material between them. "What would Dr Burke say about that?"

"Are you really doing this to me right now?"

"I'm almost certain that is not what he would say-"

She scowls at him, how he never takes this seriously, but his fingers find her bare skin and she gasps, the cold running straight through to her bones.

"Never mind what Burke would say," he hums. "Listen to me instead." His mouth touches hers, the barest whisper of his lips, the heat of his breath in the cold morning. She's shivering so badly that she can barely keep still before him.

His not-quite kiss rubs against her lips.

"You're not saying anything," she murmurs. He said _listen_ but he's not talking. He's kissing her.

His hands cup her face, tug her eyes up to look at him. He makes her weak when he looks at her like that. His mouth comes back to hers, presses in, just enough to release a moan.

"Say all I need to say just like this."

Suddenly, she's listening.

 **X**

The drive is worse than she expected, and she's glad she made them leave so early this morning. She keeps their speed low, but interstate traffic has very little mercy for overt caution. Castle is silent beside her, not trying to talk her up, respecting her concentration.

The farther west they go, aiming for New York, the less snow they see - but the more ice. The wiper blades are coated in it and she debates pulling off onto the shoulder and trying to break them free, but she's not sure it would help.

"You doing okay?" he says, voice low.

"I'm okay," she promises him. Promises. She feels like she's always making him promises.

His fingers piano on the center console, stop. He's being very good, holding still, not fidgeting, no radio. Doesn't feel like him, but maybe he's trying to prove something to her.

She's already made up her mind though. There's nothing to prove, nothing that _can_ be proved.

"Let me know if you need me to take over driving."

It's sweet, but not in a million years would she let Castle drive in this. She's the one who has the training.

"Mother used to do Winter Theatre in Glen Falls," he says. She spares him a glance and only gets the back of his head. He's looking out the window as he speaks. "They have a pretty well known festival, lots of people in the business come around and check out the crop of actors. I was maybe seventeen, eighteen. I would drive her because it made her nervous. And she's a terrible driver. She used to joke that I must be the mailman's kid - neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night."

"You drove her?"

"Up and back about fifty times during the winter," he says, nodding. "This is all pretty familiar. Funny how things come back to you. Riding a bike."

"Familiar," she echoes. And then, "It's unsettling sometimes how it's all variation on a theme. Like you were saying."

"That sounds like you think people can't change."

She shrugs one shoulder, won't risk looking at him. "I'm not sure they really can." She can't seem to change. No matter the work she puts into it. Nothing changes.

"I think people can, and do. I think I have. I think _you_ have, Kate. Wasn't that what therapy was about, and knocking down that wall?"

"That was being _more._ " Though it's a fine line, being more or being different. "What I'm talking about is how stuck we are in our inherent patterns, how the world serves up the same issues, the same tragedies no matter what we do."

"Well, what I meant about themes in a story has nothing to do with being doomed to repeat our mistakes. Themes are - motifs. Let's call it that. A thread that runs through your whole life's work and stitches things together."

The car hydroplanes, and she squeezes tight on the steering wheel, barely controlling the car. When the tires catch on the interstate once more, she answers him like nothing happened, mostly to avoid chewing a hole in her bottom lip with the effort of concentration. "When I arrested Bracken, it really felt like that."

"Like a thread stitched together?"

"Loose ends tied together, coming full circle. End where I began, in a way."

He makes a soft noise. "It really was satisfying, that's for sure. The way you looked striding down the steps and putting him in the car. I can't tell you how good that felt just to _see_ you."

"It feels like such a long way from there to here," she says, biting her lip to keep the emotion out of her voice. If she lets go, she's not sure she can stop it. If she starts, there will be no end.

"I know it does," he sighs.

"I had - it all tied off," she confesses. "It was _over_. And now it feels like nothing will ever be over for me."

The silence falls back over the two of them in the car, the straining hush of concentration as she navigates the icy roads. The slush must have refrozen during the night on this stretch, because it's worse than when they started out.

"Kate," he says. "Kate, some things never _will_ be over. Some things shouldn't end."

He's talking about them together. But _us_ is so hard to hold on to when she's driving back to the city, back to everything she thought she could escape. Back to all those tangled, messy strings that keep on unraveling.

 **X**

The interstate has cleared up by the time they get through New Haven and hook up with I95, which helps to ease her grip on the steering wheel but doesn't do much for that furrow in her forehead and the vein that flares between her eyes.

He reaches over slowly, no sudden moves, and touches first her elbow, the back of her arm, like approaching a wild thing. She lets out a sharp held-breath when he skims up to her shoulder, but she grunts when his thumb and finger dig into the knots at her neck. Hard.

"Oh, God," she groans, "that feels good."

He doesn't speak, simply works his thumb into those places at her spine. Her shoulders drop, her breath resumes a deeper rhythm, and her fingers slide to the bottom of the wheel, cradling it. Castle brushes her hair back to do the other side, kneading his way down her vertebrae. She arches and sits up straighter to give him room, and he knuckles the sides of her spine to the flare of her hips, and then he comes back up to get those tight places under her shoulder blades.

"Thanks," she breathes. There's a hum in her voice he loves to hear, and the tension inside their car begins to dissipate.

He keeps his hand at her nape, squeezing from time to time, thumb making firm circles up the strong column of her neck. But he turns his gaze to the window, purposefully keeping himself calm in an effort to relax her.

The landscape is a blur of brown and grey, wet bare trees and a domed sky. All that muffled muteness of snow has disappeared, and now he can see the power lines in their black loops, the graffiti-stained culverts, the broken-windowed warehouses. He idly reads the signs as they fly by, advertisements and exits, roadside warnings and Christmas messages.

He wants to stop. He needs them to just _stop_. He feels like this has slipped out of his hands this morning, like all the work they did is coming apart. Or worse, all that work only reinforced Kate's world view.

 _Everyone dies, Castle._

Yes, okay, everyone does, technically, die. They're dying the moment they breathe air and experience time. Everyone is dying.

He wishes he could convince her to live.

The landscape starts to bleed into a hypnotizing blur. Grey and brown, streaks of sudden gnarled earth. He happens to catch a faded billboard in fancy cursive, difficult to read going at this speed. He cranes his neck to keep it in sight and he catches something about Santa's Village, but more tantalizing is the name on the sign. _Her_ name.

He spots another one a few miles down the road and scans it quickly: _Santa's Village, Houghton Harbor State Park and Nature Reserve._

It is, quite literally, a sign. And he'll take it.

"Hey, let's get off at the next exit." He knows he's grinning, that it looks like he's plotting something, and he _is,_ but it usually goes better for him if she can't see that. Or hear it in his voice. "If you don't mind."

"What? Why?"

"A break, just a break. We could go to the bathroom. Maybe grab some lunch. Early, I know, but we got up early."

She huffs. "Castle, I just got through a bad knot of traffic with all those semis. If we stop now, I'll lose my place and have to fight through it all over again."

"That guy from Maine was such a jackass-"

"I don't relish repeating the experience."

"He's gonna get someone killed, riding everyone's tail like that, cutting people off only to slow way down."

"Or himself shot," she says grimly.

"I know it'll suck, but I'll drive," he promises. "You won't have to do it again. I just need a break, stretch my legs. It's taken twice as long to get back as it did to come out here."

She practically strangles the wheel, and he can see how she wants to say no and keep driving.

"It's this exit coming up," he says, nudging a little. "And there was a sign back there that said Santa's Workshop. I think they're calling it the North Pole."

"So that's the real reason," she says, giving him a fast look. He's surprised to see how soft her expression is, how tender her regard. How there's a strange sheen of hurt in her eyes. "Why didn't you just say that from the beginning?"

He shrugs, not sure why he always feels the need to make it a mystery, like he has to trick her into doing things for him.

She says nothing as she drives, but when the off-ramp approaches, she turns on her blinker and gets into the lane. As they exit, Kate snares his fingers and brings his knuckles to her lips, dusts them with a kiss. "Sometimes, Castle, I need you to tell me what you want. I'd stop for you. I'll always stop for you."

 **X**

It's fun, she has to admit. They take a bathroom break and then drive down to the Santa's Village thing nestled within the coincidentally-named Houghton Harbor State Park. He keeps saying it's serendipity, meant for them, her mother's maiden name, her middle name. They park in a dirt-packed lot specially cleared for the place, and they walk hand-in-hand towards the entrance while she scoffs at him.

The place is set up with temporary workshops and peppermint candy making and hand-carved gifts. She points out a couple things for Alexis which he buys for the young woman for Christmas, and it's nice to share a meandering few hours through the shops and gifts, leaning into each other and sharing thoughts as they did all week. Nice to think they've haven't lost that magic.

He stands in line for peppermint mocha while she buys fudge for the Twelfth. They share a big bag of hot kettle corn, watching the tail end of the Nativity Pageant. Mary with her swaddled baby Jesus tugs at Kate's heart, but next up is a Santa Claus parade that brings out that deep chuckle from Castle's chest. A musical revue, a square dance, a puppet show, and of course, pictures with Santa - and they sample all of it.

It really is something of a harbor, a safe port in the storm that has been their lives lately.

Now that they're ensconced in the car once more, winding back through the highway to get to the interstate, she's grateful he made them stop. It's reminded her of everything they _can_ still do, even in the city, even when they're not-together together. It's possible to still live, to not put everything on hold, if she just takes the time to be with him.

She has a lot more hope, and that's all his doing.

"You sure you don't want me to drive?"

"I'm good," she says warmly. "But thanks, babe. I'll let you know."

She's still cradling her peppermint mocha in one hand as she turns onto the onramp and pushes up their speed. She's checking her blind spot when she hears Castle _whoa_ and it makes her whip her head back around.

The interstate is slowing to a crawl, red brake lights flaring up across the grey noon horizon. She eases onto the brake pedal even as she merges with traffic, and she has to do some fast work to get them into the lane they need.

"What's this?" he mutters. "It's really slowing down."

"Yeah, I see that," she says blankly, checking her mirror and changing lanes again, the fast lane-

"Kate!"

She jerks her eyes forward, stomps on the brakes as the truck ahead of them fishtails. It happens in a heartbeat: in her rearview mirror, the car behind them squeals as it tries to stop, the truck ahead plows off the interstate and barely misses the guard rail, and then she taps on the gas to rocket them just far enough forward to avoid being rear ended.

"Close one," Castle breathes as they straighten out.

The truck's engine grumbles as it gets back into line, the drive waving a shaky hand as he's allowed into traffic. Kate checks her rear view to follow his progress, and the guy is now two cars behind them at least, so she might not have to worry about him doing something else stupid.

"Oh, wow. Now look." Castle points ahead of them but she's behind a huge semi and she can't see. It's only when they begin to crest a little rise and come down again that the horizon widens up.

What she couldn't see, what the truck ahead of them was blocking, is a massive standstill about five miles up the interstate. It's causing near-collisions all down the line of traffic, as if whatever is causing the slow down just happened.

Castle takes the cup from her gingerly and she realizes she spilled peppermint mocha on her jeans. She hears him slurping the spill off the lid as she touches the spot on her thigh.

"What do you need?" he asks.

"Napkin," she sighs. "Do we have any?"

"They gave us some with the popcorn. Hang on."

Rustling as he opens up the bags again. She concentrates on the stop-and-go traffic, worried by how much _stop_ they're doing. He comes back and presses napkins into her wrist, and she flips her hand and grabs for them, begins patting dry her jeans.

"Can you see what's going on-" A siren roars by them on the shoulder, churning up gravel and flinging dust back to them. Immediately after that is an ambulance and a fire truck, all of them using the median grass of the divided interstate.

Kate leans to one side to see if she can get a glimpse around the semi, but all she sees are brake lights.

"It's going to be a while," she mutters.

She wishes now that they hadn't stopped.

 **X**

They sit in the car for an hour at a complete standstill before his wife finally turns the engine off. Castle has been nudging the dial of the radio through the AM station looking for a traffic report, but he mainly found closings and bridge warnings.

"You would think it would be clearing up," he says. And then he releases his seat belt and opens his car door.

Kate hisses his name but he steps out of the car and stands up. She swats at his ass, leaning so far over that he can see her seatbelt choking her, but he steps out of her range.

"Castle."

"My legs are getting cramped. I'm gonna walk ahead and see if-"

"Castle, no-"

"Just a quick walk. You can pick me up if it starts going again." But it won't. It's been an _hour_ already and they haven't moved an inch. The onramp for Santa's Village at Houghton Harbor State Park is barely a mile behind them.

She yells his name again as he shuts the car door, but it drowns her out, muffles her just like the snow muted the world this past week. It's cold out here, hovering around the freezing mark, and he pulls his coat closer together as he strides between the lanes.

He walks the length of the semi and a car door opens about twenty yards ahead. An adult male is getting out of the backseat of a Saab; he spots Castle and hesitantly waves.

Castle waves back and they meet on the tarmac. Already he can see others have gotten out to stand by their cars as well, hands in pockets, craning their necks to see the endless brake lights and puffs of exhaust.

"What's going on?" he asks, nodding to the traffic. "Do you know?"

The guy rubs the back of his neck. "Saw on twitter there's a twenty-eight car pile-up. Already being hashtagged #95pileup."

"You're kidding." Twenty-eight cars? "Do you know what mile marker?"

"Someone said, but I don't remember. I think it was eighty miles up the road."

"Eighty miles," he croaks. _Eighty_ miles of traffic. "They've closed the interstate?"

"I think they're trying to," the guy says, shaking his head. "Farther back and didn't you see the blue lights go screaming past? Probably what they were doing. I'm sure they'll start detouring us soon. I hope anyway. Nowhere else to go."

"Thanks," he says, shaking the guy's hand. "I should get back to my wife."

He turns and walks back for the car, feeling numb.

 **X**

"Eighty miles?"

He eases back inside the car and all she can really think is _why are you always leaving me?_ but it falls out of her chest and flails like a weak thing, dies before it can leave her lips.

"Eighty miles," he repeats. "We are stuck. Stuck again, funny enough."

"Is this irony?" she mutters. "Or just really bad-"

Luck.

Kate sucks in a breath, the reality of the traffic jam just now hitting her.

Eighty miles is the difference between stopping at Santa's Village and pushing on through like she wanted. Eighty miles is the hour she spent shopping and eating popcorn and watching silly Santas on parade with her husband.

"That would've been us," she croaks, hands gripping the wheel. Her heart is a stampede off the side of a cliff. "That should've been us. We would've been up there."

"No," he says cautiously. A weak chuckle. "Not us. You're too good for that. Probably that asshole from Maine."

"Don't do that," she snaps. "Don't. I'm serious."

He sobers up. But he was already sober, wasn't he? He knew the moment he found out, didn't he?

"Eighty miles puts us right there in the middle of it." A twenty-eight car pile-up.

"I found the hashtag on twitter. They're posting videos." He holds out his phone and she glances blankly over at him, then stares at chaos on his screen.

"Oh, God," she whispers.

Fire. Four semis burnt to skeletons, two cars still on fire, mangled things. Five ambulances, an array of police vehicles with strobing lights. In the short video, a crew is working with the jaws of life on a car so obliterated she can't believe anyone is alive in there. A car just like theirs.

"That's us," she says, pressing a hand over her mouth.

Castle reaches out and grips the nape of her neck, but this time he tugs hard and pulls her into him. She tangles an arm around him and clings.

"But it's not us," he says in her ear.

She takes a hard breath, flinches as the video plays on, a woman's ragged yell filling the tinny speakers. Castle fumbles at his phone and it mercifully cuts off.

There's a silence so deep it makes her ache.

"Houghton Harbor State Park," she mumbles at his neck. "That was us. If not for you seeing my mom's maiden name on a stupid sign."

"It wasn't us," he repeats. "That's not us. We're here, eighty miles back. We stopped the car and we got out and it's not us."

Houghton Harbor State Park.

"You stopped us," she whispers.

A sign. Isn't that what she was asking for? Just a sign from her mother.

"It's not us," he says firmly.

She pulls back enough to look at him, the fierce way he regards her. She clutches the lapels of his coat. "You're my sign."

 **X**

They don't make it back to the city until nearly six that night. They've switched off driving four or fives times but he knows they both feel it, the out-of-joint surreality of driving back through Spanish Harlem's ebullient Christmas lights and festive decor. She texts his daughter for him, telling Alexis they're finally back in the city.

"Want me to drop you off?" he says. His jaw is rough with stubble and he tastes grit in his mouth. "The car rental place is just down here, but I can take you-"

"No, no point," she says. She's been quiet all afternoon. Her hand reaches across the console and strokes at his forearm. "Too tired."

For what? Dropping her off? Or does she still not want him to know what extended stay she's landed at? "Fine," he sighs. "It means a subway ride."

"I know."

He stops talking, rubbing hard at his chin and cheek where it itches. He hasn't shaved all week and it's beginning to get scruffy, that in between bristle and beard stage that isn't pretty, just miserable.

He drives the car into the Enterprise garage, stopping before the gate-bar before putting it in park. An attendant comes out of the attached office and Castle hands over the key, pulls out their duffle bag even as Kate struggles from the passenger seat with their purchases.

He takes them from her silently, figuring he can use the bag to divvy up their clothes once they get inside the office. Kate tucks her fingers into the pocket of his coat and bumps into him as he walks, and when he turns around, she looks dead on her feet.

It softens him, and he slides an arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. Even though they're back in the city and he shouldn't be doing that.

But Kate turns her cheek and kisses him back, soft and a little awkward, before moving away to get the door.

He follows her inside and her other hand is still in his pocket, which means it's a strange dance at the threshold before she yields. He heads for the desk and the attendant comes back in with the key and mileage, calls up Kate's name in the computer. Castle deals with it, Kate leaning into his side, and it's a matter of fifteen minutes.

He guides her out of the office to the north side exit, and they come up right at the entrance to the Harlem-125th Metro-North station. Kate takes his hand, their fingers tangling, and keeps him with her as they walk through holiday crowds, loaded down the same, winding through the massive station.

She doesn't divert from his side, sticking by him as he heads for the Lexington Avenue Line that spurs off into the 4, 5, and 6 trains. She stays with him even when he gets to the platform, and she waits with him. She looks too tired to know better.

"Your line?" he asks, squeezing her hand. Nudging until she looks at him.

"My line?"

"Going my way?" he says with a grin, knocking their joined hands into her hip. Trying to lift her spirits a little.

She blinks slowly and her face blossoms open, shedding exhaustion right in front of his eyes. She leans into him on her toes right as the train comes screeching through the tunnel, the rush of hot air across his face, whipping his coat around him. Her mouth skims his jaw and she lets out a breath near his ear.

Her teeth catch his scruff and he shivers, hanging onto her by a fist in her leather jacket.

"I want to go home, Castle. Together."

 **X**


	20. December 20

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 20**_

 **X**

 _today there's clarity_

 **X**

She wakes this morning in her own bed.

With her husband.

Kate nudges the pillow away from her face and reaches across the mattress to touch his shoulder. He's deeply asleep, it's barely sunrise, and she tries not to jostle him too much even as she curls into his side. His chest is warm and smells like their laundry, and she closes her eyes again, riding the wave of his breathing.

It's very nice for a moment. It's soothing.

And then her brain starts, her anxious and paranoid self, and she can't turn it off, all the things that might happen to him because she can't let go, the ways life doesn't work out for her like this.

He's not awake to tell her it's bullshit; he's not talking over that voice in her head. But he is here. He's here, and she will _make_ herself relax. She won't panic.

Kate slides an arm around his waist and pulls herself closer, wanting so badly to rest in this. To simply _rest_ again.

In him. Like they did last week, meeting each other in that space of wonder and forgiveness and no-questions-asked.

But she's awake, and all too aware of what she's done.

She wishes she could pray, wishes Christmas held actual magic, that her mother could hear her. She wishes for protection, anything. For help. It all feels like borrowed time, and she hasn't really recovered from the summer she was supposed to marry him and he went missing instead. She hasn't recovered, even though he appeared again, even though they moved on; she's not whole.

She's a woman of wounds, and walking around on them means they never really heal.

But she got her help, didn't she? She was given a sign, her Christmas miracle. Yesterday on the road when he wanted to stop and she wanted to keep going, when he _saved_ them. It can't be much clearer than that, how he saw her family name on a sign and steered them in the right direction.

Kate gets it; she does. But she still has to fight her instincts, fight against the anxiety that crawls down her throat at the idea of dragging him into darkness with her.

"Like it here."

She startles and lifts her head, sees Castle opening his eyes. "What?" she breathes.

"Like you here," he says, and then he turns into her. His whole body envelops her and then crushes her back to the mattress. "Love you here, right here."

"Right here," she promises. Her voice muffled is by his by the bulk of him over her.

He laughs and lifts to his elbows, looking down at her. His fingers unfurl at her temples, stroke back through her hair. "Hey, you look worn out."

"Well, thanks, Castle."

He doesn't rise to the bait. "Did you sleep?"

"Some."

"Kate," he whispers. His face momentarily falls, but he rallies, struggling out of it, his determination flashing in his eyes like salmon swimming upstream. Silver and purposed. "Then we're staying in bed. All day. It's not even sunrise. Still plenty of good sleeping hours."

"Castle-"

"No." His hard inhalation jostles her own ribs, denial closing down his face. She can see how that determination of his is shored up with so much wariness.

"Castle." She pushes up on his shoulders, but he won't move. She could force him, but his weight and sheer physical strength would damage them both. (Why does that appeal so keenly to her? Let her break herself-)

"No, we're not discussing this. You're not leaving-"

"Castle, hiding away from the world didn't help anything." She abandons his shoulders to cup his face above her, smooth her thumbs under his cheeks. He looks like he slept well for the first time in ages, and that hurts even as it heals. "I can't hide from this. _We_ can't hide. It only makes the real world so much worse."

He closes his eyes and his chin drops, his forehead bumping hers.

She sighs and draws her arms around his head, cradling him against her, a kiss to the corner of his eye. "I'm not leaving." She can make that promise; leaving does no good either. "Hiding from you is just as bad."

"Good," he says viciously. But he nestles his head on her shoulder, at her chest, tucking his arms against her sides. She has almost all of his weight on top of her, but she can feel where he's still propping himself up at an elbow, a knee.

She combs her fingers in his hair and kisses him again. "I have to get up though. Have to do something. Keep my mind off it - not think about all the things that could go wrong. Or - um - I think I'll probably have a panic attack."

"I know how to help," he mumbles against her temple. His head lifts and he looks like a boy, he looks like he's never lost his innocence or his wonder. "I know what we do. Plan of attack. Instead of a panic attack. Right?"

Kate goes still.

"I thought you were going to roll your eyes and tell me my puns are lame." He flashes that charming grin and rolls to his side. He draws her with him, handling her like she weighs nothing, tugging her upright with him against the headboard. He bumps shoulders with her and holds up a finger. "Plan of attack. First, we figure out what we tell people. I'm thinking we had a romantic getaway, we patched things up, we're better than ever-"

"Well, we are. And we did."

He wriggles a little, and she knows she made him pleased. He ticks off a second finger. "For my part of things, I'll avidly court you, and your change of heart - flowers, jewelry, showing up at the Twelfth at all hours."

She huffs, curling into his side, drawing a knee up at his thigh. "Stick to the showing up part, Rick."

"Oh, no, don't take this from me. My reputation is on the line here. Flowers and jewelry and maybe a new car?"

"Castle!"

"We need one anyway," he says, shrugging. "Come on, it'll be fun. Let me buy you a car. It'll be for 'us'." He uses air quotes and everything, grinning over at her.

"You're incorrigible."

"Yeah, but admit it. You missed me like crazy."

Kate flattens her hand on his chest for balance, and then she leans in and presses her mouth to his jaw. "Castle," she says quietly. "I missed you like crazy."

His breath catches, but he winds his arm around her neck and pulls them into each other, his kiss landing first on her nose and then down her cheek to her mouth. Oh, the way he kisses her, how it lights up her body.

When he pulls back, his eyes are happy blue. "Missed you too."

She clears her throat to keep it light. "That's your part. And for mine?"

He hesitates.

"What, Castle? I can tell you have an idea."

"I think you should - we should go to therapy."

Her mouth drops open and she lifts from his chest to stare at him.

He winces. "To prove - to validate our cover story."

"We are not a cover story," she says harshly. But she pauses and chews on her bottom lip. "Do you think I need therapy?"

"I think I was benefitting a lot from therapy, the times I went, and this would be more like couple's therapy, and yes? A little bit I think you... couple's therapy, at least."

She sinks back down to his side and lays her cheek on his shoulder. His fingers trail up her back and into her hair. "Couple's therapy," she murmurs.

"For our narrative," he corrects. "Not that I think we're faking it. I know we're not. But a public reconciliation. Proving that we're staying out of things, that we're not a threat - because we're working on each other, we're working on our issues. We can't possibly be chasing down McCord's killer."

"Oh." Rachel's killer. It catches her just that sharply, how this woman was her mentor at the AG's office, had her back, and now she's dead, caught unaware by an avenue of investigation that Kate started.

"It's _not_ your fault, Kate." Castle scratches lightly at her scalp and she stares at the far wall, trying to outthink her fear. Her irrationality. Her PTSD.

Didn't she just tell him they can't run and hide?

"Okay," she says softly. "Therapy. I need to go back. You're right."

"We. _We_ will go. I don't think Burke does couple's counseling, but I bet he could see us back-to-back. For the narrative. So, that's part one of our plan."

"Therapy and - gifts. You're determined to make me uncomfortable here, aren't you? Punishing me for this."

"It's not intended to be retribution, Kate."

She sighs and closes her eyes. "No, I know. Supposed to be a joke." _Naked punishing._ She rubs her thumb over his sternum. "Therapy and gifts. Is there a part two?"

"Part two is the case. We start looking at your investigation. Top to bottom, you and me together. And - I guess, Vikram, so it'll be a threesome." A brief flicker in his eyes.

Kate lifts from his shoulder. "Not Vikram."

His eyebrows go up, and she sees how that pleases him. But he only says, "Oh?"

"You said you don't trust him."

"I don't know him. I don't-" She can see his shoulders squirming as he tries to avoid the urge to blurt it out. "No. I don't trust him."

"Then we don't tell him," she says, shrugging like it's simple. It's not simple; it won't be simple.

"Then what are you going to tell him?"

"That I love you, and I missed my husband."

Castle closes his hand around her elbow. "It's sweet, but I don't think that will fly, Kate."

She scowls at him. "It's the truth. And that's all he needs to know." Kate nudges at his side to shake him off her elbow. "Now come on, Castle. We have a beautiful snow-free Sunday to get started."

Castle groans and grabs a fistful of her pajama top, drags her back down with him. "Not starting yet, we're not. Yesterday was hellacious. We are sleeping in. Come on. Make it up to me. I want to laze in bed with you."

She really can't say no.

Why would she?

She loves him and she missed her husband.

 **X**


	21. December 21

**Wintersong**

* * *

 **December 21**

 **X**

 _wanted for so long_

 **X**

Castle walks his wife into the Twelfth Precinct.

He gets a fist bump from Ryan behind her back, and a head nod from Esposito as he ushers Kate inside her office. He slips her coat from her shoulders and hangs it on the coat rack behind the door, and then he hands her the coffee he made this morning in its travel mug.

She has this cute, shy smile for him, and she curls her free hand in the lapels of his coat, tugs him a little closer.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey, you smell like woodsmoke," she murmurs, leaning in and touching her nose to his coat. "Still in the wool."

"I can get it dry cleaned-"

"No," she says, lifting her chin to him. "Don't do that. Good memories."

"Alright," he grins. "I'll just leave it in the closet to stink up the rest of our stuff." She rolls her eyes and pushes on him a little, but he snags her wrist and kisses her knuckles lightly. "Speaking of the rest of our stuff, where's yours?"

"Where's-" She blinks, straightens up. "My stuff. Oh. I should do that."

"I can do that. While you're working. Divide and conquer."

She hesitates, fidgeting with his lapel.

He doesn't understand her reluctance. "Would you rather do it yourself?"

"No, it's fine. Let me see if I can even find the key card." She lets go of his coat and turns, but he's still hanging onto her and she gets reeled right back, stumbling into his chest. "Castle?"

"Before you go," he murmurs. And then he gives her the kiss he's wanted to, his wife, the Captain of the Twelfth, his partner.

When he finally lets her go, her eyes are slow to open, her lips swollen.

"Whew," she breathes. Her fingers lift to touch her mouth, her eyes dart to the windows of her office and she flushes. "Everyone's clapping."

He glances to the side and laughs, seeing the whole bullpen ranged outside, stopping to congratulate them. "Ah. Well. Feeds the narrative, doesn't it?"

She grins back at him and darts in to peck his lips. "You're right."

"Now get that key card, Kate. I'll bring your stuff home."

"Actually, I'd rather go with you, if you don't mind."

He lifts an eyebrow and she ducks her head, brushing her hair back, that movement of deliberate pause, giving herself time to think.

"Pick me up around five?" she says, cradling her coffee against her chest.

"Will do."

 **X**

Alexis stops by while he's cleaning out the fridge, everything spoiled going into the compost heap which he absolutely must take out immediately.

"It reeks in here," she says, waving her hand in front of her nose. "I thought I kept up with things."

"Missed the cottage cheese," he answers, opening an arm for his daughter. She embraces him, but she keeps her head away from the container in his hand, making faces. He squeezes all the harder for that, until she giggles, and then he lets her go. "How's the case load? Oh, better yet, how were exams?"

"Exams were a breeze. Hayley helped me study for Stats-"

"Stats?" He doesn't remember that being on her schedule.

"Behavioral Sciences Statistics, keep up."

He flashes her a grin, sniffs cautiously at the leftover gravy from Thanksgiving.

"Better throw it out," she says, nose wrinkling.

"It doesn't smell bad."

"Dad."

"Right." He dumps the gravy into the compost bucket, starts running hot water in the container. "And the PI business? I hope you didn't take on too much, what with exams-"

"You missed the best case," she gushes, looking like a fifteen year old girl again. Over a case. "We used that tracker you bought and it is _so cool_. Wish you could've been there. But Hayley-"

"You like Hayley a lot, huh?"

Alexis looks flustered, stopping in the middle of her explanation, sinking back to the counter. "I like Kate, too."

He laughs because otherwise his daughter's defensiveness would be entirely too telling. "That's not what I'm getting at, pumpkin. But I'm glad you still like Kate."

"Then stop avoiding the issue and just tell me. How'd it go? Out there, all alone, just the two of you." She raises an eyebrow, looking sophisticated and grown-up, no longer that excited little girl. "I promise I won't judge-"

"Kate's home," he says, nodding.

"Right now?" she squeaks, spinning around.

"No, at work. I mean she's back. Home. Here. We drove home together."

"Oh, Dad."

He gets a tackling hug around his shoulders and his excited daughter squeezing him so tightly he drops the container into the sink. But he hugs her back, chuckling as she squeals a little in his ear, and that's both fifteen year old and mature young adult at the same time.

"Yeah, we had a good time," he says. "We talked. Worked some things out."

"It's not - I mean it's for good, right?" Alexis lifts soulful eyes to meet his. "She's staying?"

"She's staying."

"Oh, that's - oh, no, what about Christmas Eve dinner?"

Castle stares at her. "What do you mean, what about-"

"Gram and I had already decided to take you out, a surprise, get you out of the loft - we have reservations and we did this whole - but now that Kate is - well, is she coming?"

"Of course she's coming. She lives here."

Well, but _is_ she coming?

They might have a few more things to iron out.

 **X**

It's depressing.

She's known it's depressing all along, but it's more so with him standing just inside the small space. Bedroom/kitchenette with the hot plate she tried to warm up her coffee on and instead shattered the ceramic mug and couldn't clean it well enough so it smells like burnt coffee every time she has to use it.

Sad full bed, the comforter gold and tan. A painting on the wall of clowns tumbling out of a car, one of them crying, the rest picking on him for falling.

"Kate, this is depressing."

"I know," she says tightly, shoving clothes into the duffle bag at the foot of the bed.

"I mean, really depressing. At least you hung up your clothes." He takes down a couple of her dresses and nicer suits that she's had to wear lately for the job. She could only hang them on the back of the closet door, a little hook she bought to go over the top. The closet itself reeks of cigarette smoke.

"I had to hang them up. Get too wrinkled. There's - the iron is iffy."

Castle hooks her hanging clothes over his shoulder and glances around. "Kate, you could've stayed at the Hilton. You could've-"

"We stayed at the Hilton," she mumbles, rubbing a hand down her face. She's so tired. She worked like crazy to get her inbox clear after a week away, just so she could leave with him when he picked her up at five. She feels the day pressing in on her.

"We stayed one night at the Hilton, yeah, so?"

"So... I couldn't."

He catches her elbow and she knows it's her signal to look at him, that he wants to _know_. But she can't figure it out herself, so how is she supposed to explain?

"What about your old apartment? Your cousin?"

"Not there," she shudders. "Can't stay there. Couldn't."

"Because... we stayed there."

Because they've stayed all those places. "I couldn't - be with you," she says, pressing the heel of her hand to her sternum, pressing. "I couldn't stay where there are so many-"

He's tugging her hand away from her heart, his fingers inserting themselves in her fist, easing her open. "Does it pull?" he murmurs, stepping in close to her.

"Pull?" she says, her voice sounding strange.

"The scar. You keep - kneading it."

"Oh." She gives a weak laugh and tilts her forehead into his jaw. "No."

"Distress," he says quietly. Too knowing. Scary how he knows her. "It's okay. We can drop it. You don't have to explain."

"Yeah, I do," she sighs. "I know I do."

"Eventually, maybe. But not now," he offers, a hand heavy at her shoulder blade, holding her close. Close enough that the heat of him is like a second presence, a ghost.

A ghost.

"It was easier to fall asleep if I didn't have you - have memories of you here. Bland and - and dull. I needed it to remind me of nothing at all."

"There are better hotels than this. Places we haven't stayed. I know this place is close to the Twelfth, but believe me, there are much better ones near here. I googled them."

She huffs, but she finds herself being gentled, the scar unhooking from her heart. "Of course you did."

"Of course I did."

She releases her hold on the duffle bag and draws both arms around his torso, holding on to him. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Googling. Searching. Not giving up."

His rumble sounds like _of course_ and she really loves that, she really loves him, how natural and inevitable the persistence of his love for her is.

"I wanted it to be as uncomfortable and unhappy as I could make it," she finds herself saying. "So I'd work harder, faster, to get back to you. I didn't want to like it. I wanted to hate every second of being without you."

 **X**


	22. December 22

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 22**_

 **X**

 _I haven't got the room in my head for these things_

 **X**

"It's a stupid idea, and you're only going to get him killed."

For a heartbeat, everything Vikram is saying is true, so achingly true.

And then her heart resumes its rhythm and the world still rotates on its axis and she eases the grip she has on the pole.

"It's already done," she tells him.

Kate leaves Vikram inside the neon-glare of the former strip club, hunched before his computers, following more rabbits down into their holes, petulant and pernicious.

His accusation still rings in her ears.

She shoves her hands into her pockets and pulls her shoulders up to block the wind, wandering away from the place in Queens, going in circles to spot any surveillance. Looping the block and looping it again, meandering down the sidewalk only to fall back and change direction.

Going in circles.

Carving a groove inside her, a well-worn path of doubt.

She finds herself standing at the platform for the 7 line at Jackson Heights, not sure how she managed to navigate the busy station and its multiple hubs, so sunk inside herself that she has no idea how careful - or careless - she's been.

She rides the 7 across the East River and into Manhattan, every swaying corner, every slowing stop working a kind of hypnotism over her. She's worrying at the edges of her worry, this fear that she knows is a product of her trauma, but she can't seem to slough it. It follows her around, no matter what she does.

She wants this done. No more hanging in the balance.

Kate departs at Time Square, hopping off the train to the platform and maneuvering through the holiday crowds, students on break and shoppers needing one. She winds through the underground warren of connecting passageways. The 7 line is sixty feet below street level, and she has to work her way up through the mezzanines, find her way towards the 1, 2, and 3 lines.

She makes it to the platform just as a train is disgorging passengers, and she jogs a little to catch it. Flushed, overwarm in the crowd, she squeezes on just as the doors are closing, finds a spot to balance herself, no pole or handhold available in the packed car.

The subway rocks under her feet and she finds herself staring blankly out of the window, the tile mosaics sliding by, the warped image of her reflection, and then the dark tunnel as they head roughly north-east under Manhattan.

She can't do this to herself, to them. She can't let these rabbit holes and dead-end dens have her running in deeper, darker circles. She has to get hold of herself before she walks inside that loft; she has to be more than a rabbit going to ground.

Doesn't help that she watched Lanie pull up the sheet on a seventeen year old kid who was stabbed at school, a privately-funded STEM Academy. The boy was on the robotics team, from a neighborhood that didn't seem very shocked by the idea that the kid had been in trouble, even grieving as they were. Beckett interviewed the mother personally, handling her with all the grace and sympathy she owned, and yet still-

Senseless. Tragic. The words have stopped holding their meaning any longer.

Kate is startled into awareness as the doors open, a gust of air through the emptying car. She's missed her stop by leagues, four or five too late, and she jerks forward, getting off automatically and scanning the platform.

She heads up, out into the night, and she finds herself on Amsterdam Avenue, going the wrong direction but unable to stop. She's wishing for the stars like she saw them in Connecticut, how brilliant, how glittering, the sky _textured_ with them, as if she could reach up and rub her fingers over their rough edges.

If she could just reach up.

She tilts her head back and aches to see them but instead she sees the line of trees down the avenue and the harsh angle of buildings against the bruised night.

And at the horizon, St John's Cathedral, its great rose window glowing like a beacon. Below that, the lesser rose window, shaped like a seven-pointed star, has her lifting a hand and cupping its warm light in her palm.

Two points of light, two glowing embers, together.

She needs her star, her sign in the heavens. She needs him.

 **X**

He's been inside the Cathedral's Crossing only once before in his whole life, and he doesn't know what to do with his loud shoes or his awkward hands. He doesn't dare touch the century-old architecture, but he steps lightly down the aisle towards the altar (he thinks it's an altar, but it could be a table for all he knows). The floor is limestone, beautifully worn, and the pews are well-used, shining with their age.

He finds her only a few rows up, sitting with her shoulders narrow and her hands in her lap. He sinks dow to sit beside her and takes her hand, squeezing.

Bagpipes are starting up, wheezing music into the air, ringing in the echoing, massive space. He studies them for a minute, watching the players tune-up, the strange thread of real melody that begins to form between the aching in their song.

A choir is positioned just to the left of the altar, only half of them in robes, a few sitting down, the choral director waving his arms. It's all disparate, the bagpipes and the voices, nothing blending together.

He leans into Kate. "If the choir isn't behind us in the balcony, you can't call it a choir loft, can you?"

Her lips twitch. "No. Don't think so."

"What is it then?"

"Mm. I don't know. Look it up on your phone."

He hisses in response, trying to get another quirking smile. "I can't use my phone in _church_ , Beckett." He shudders. "You heathen."

A definite lift of her lips now. "How about a gallery?"

Gallery. "That works," he breathes, settled now that he has the word.

All at once, the bagpipes hit their perfect, sad notes and the choir in the gallery comes to attention. The sound that pours out of them is both other-worldly and yet so ancient. Like listening to the music the world makes when no one is listening.

Kate leans her head against his shoulder and sighs.

Castle's throat closes up and he brings her hand to his lips, softly kisses her knuckles.

He's so glad she called.

 **X**

 _One more song,_ he mouths at her temple and she nods, her bones stiff from the hard bench but unwilling to move.

 _One more song,_ she murmurs into the grand space, closing her eyes as it fills with melody, with pure voices and rough bagpipes, with a sound that lifts them all heavenward.

And then one more song is the entire rehearsal, all of the practiced performance, the pieces where the bagpipes play their mournful joy, and the time has slid away from them.

She stands first, and she takes him by the hand, pulling him to his feet. There are others, a few rising from their pews and heading to the back, and they're graced with soft smiles and shared tenderness, the mild mercy of finding company in the midst of so much comfort.

He touches the small of her back and guides her towards the doors, where he moves just enough ahead of her to push one open, holding it. She passes out of the cathedral and onto the top of the steps leading down to the street, granite sparkling under white lights and lamp posts.

He walks with her, fingers laced and keeping hers warmed, his bulk as steady and constant as a wall.

She sheds darkness as she goes, like scales, so that by the time they arrive home, she feels scrubbed raw and pink, a little more vulnerable to the world, but more open to the love in it.

 **X**


	23. December 23

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 23_**

 ** _X_**

 _we're coming home_

 **X**

When Kate Beckett gets to the precinct, she starts working on it immediately.

It being everything. All of it.

Vikram checks in and apologizes for the things he said last night, gives her another promising lead he's managed to uncover. It's tantalizing, so attractive, to dump all of her ideas and focus wholeheartedly on the investigation, to make it her exclusive priority on today's agenda. Because protecting what they have - protecting that _is_ her first priority.

She takes her vows seriously.

But protecting her marriage means more to her now than destroying a physical threat. It means sheltering and maintaining and cultivating, it means walking a path with her husband, together, side by side. And if physical threats crop up with more frequency because of that, well, she has an idea for that too.

So she doesn't drop the ball on everything else. She doesn't get done everything she would have liked to with the lead Vikram has handed her, but it took her over a decade to get her mother's killer behind bars. She can bide her time; she has learned the patience of the predator.

She is _not_ running scared.

 **X**

When she gets home - it's so _good_ to walk through the front door of the loft and slip off her shoes - she finds the gas logs going in the fireplace and the scent of hot wassail pouring through the loft.

"Hey?" she calls out. "Rick?"

He comes sliding around the corner from the laundry room in his socks, grinning, his hair mussed for some reason. "Hey. Hi. You're home."

She lifts an eyebrow.

He comes to greet her, a tame kiss on her cheek which tells her he's distracted by whatever it was he's doing.

"Christmas prep," he murmurs against her skin, pulling back to squeeze her elbows. "You hungry?"

She glances over at the kitchen but it's empty, just the aluminum coffee urn he's dragged out from storage now resting on the bar. "Is that wassail?"

"Yeah," he says, following her through to the fireplace, "thought I'd try out a few recipes before Christmas Eve dinner. Get it perfect."

"Oh, my dad called me back." She turns and snags his hand. "He can make it. You built a fire?"

"Missed our drafty winter cottage," he says cheekily. Kate grins and lifts on her bare toes to kiss him. Properly. None of this distracted-cheek stuff.

The rumble that comes up from his chest makes her grin, breaking her lips from his, but it only causes him to wrap his arms around her and draw her closer. She nudges her nose against his; he chuckles and paints her mouth with another kiss.

"Missed that drafty winter cottage?" she echoes, working her cold fingers to his bare skin.

He hums agreement or _stop talking_ and then yelps when her fingers get him. She laughs, feeling his hands now beginning to roam.

"Get these clothes off," he says at her jaw. "Something comfy. I'll order dinner."

"Chinese," she nudges. And then she releases him, has to push herself off his chest just to get herself going.

 **X**

They're crowded into the same chair before the fireplace, mugs of wassail and cartons of Chinese on the table beside. The stereo plays Coltrane, the television is on but muted as it shows _It's A Wonderful Life_. Kate keeps watch on the flames, but he's fallen asleep, head tilted back, serene.

She's not sure how he can possibly sleep like that.

She watches his chest rise and fall for a moment and returns to the fire. She misses the random collection of books the little cottage held, though she supposes she could raid their shelves here. But it would mean getting up. She has her feet pulled up in his lap, and his hands are heavy on top of her thighs; it's nice to be anchored like this.

She should clean up dinner, get her poor husband out of the chair and into bed. Even though it's barely nine. She should probably do a hundred other things than what she's doing, sitting squished in a chair with him and letting herself be lullabied by the flames.

Suddenly Castle shouts and rockets forward so hard that she drops a leg to the floor. He stumbles up, dumping her out of his lap, and she barely manages to catch herself, her backside hitting the arm of the chair.

He lets out a gruff curse and staggers towards the fire.

Kate jumps up, grabbing him to hold him back. It's closed, of course, but her movement is instinctive. "Hey, hold up."

He wheels around and scrubs both hands down his face, letting out strange sound.

She remembers nights in bed when his dreams became restless with memories of that summer he'd been stolen. How he tossed and turned and finally got out of bed to roam. "Castle? You awake yet?"

"Gotta - get some air," he croaks, pushing past her for the front door.

"Wait! Castle," she hisses, tripping over his slippers to follow him. "It's freezing outside. At least put shoes on."

She catches his elbow before he can stumble over the threshold, and even though she's in slouchy yoga pants and he's in his pajamas, she opens the closet door.

It really does smell like woodsmoke.

Kate yanks out the first coats she finds, the hangers rocking on the bar, and she pulls on the _Somers Hardware_ fleece while Castle just stands there. She's not sure how awake he is yet, and she's just glad he's waiting for her.

"Here, babe," she murmurs, opening up his coat for him to slide his arms through. He does, turning around, and she catches him sniffing the wool at his lapel. She takes his hand before he can move out the door. "Shoes."

He turns bewildered, and then stares at her, and she sees how he's struggling against the images in his head, the feeling in his guts. She knows that all too well.

"Shoes," he says numbly.

"Right here." She pulls out his boots from the closet - the ones they bought at the feed store in Connecticut. He shoves his feet into them without socks, and she's just grateful he has shoes on.

She steps into her own shoes still by the front door, heels, and she doesn't care how it looks because he's already going down the hallway and seeking the elevator.

She rides down with him in silence, keeping close to his side. He gives a grunt when the doors open and then he walks out, like he can't stand to be in one place any longer.

A gust of cold comes whipping through the lobby, bringing a mist of rain with it, but Castle goes right out the front doors.

Kate waves off the guard at the desk who doubles as the doorman, and she follows her husband.

She finds him already outside, his head bowed. The street lights have him in shadows, and all she can see is the bulk of his body in his coat. His hunched shoulders draw up against the wind, but they're both sheltered under the awning and marginally out of the rain.

She comes up at his back and drapes herself over him, lays her cheek between his shoulder blades. She doesn't speak, but she feels him sigh, his shoulders slumping. One of his hands comes up and folds over her own at his chest.

"Bad dream," he says finally.

She knows.

Kate closes her eyes, ignoring the traffic on the street, how exposed they are here, reminding herself of where they've been, how far they've come. He lets out a long sigh, and he sounds better than he did.

"Just the regular stuff," he tells her then. His hand comes away from hers. "Nothing new."

He dreams about her being shot. Dreams loneliness and not knowing where she is or if she's okay, if she's just as alone as he is. He dreams of leaving her to hunt CIA assets around the world, and being shot, and her barely-held-together pleas on national television for information.

She understands, but she wishes it was over.

Kate props her chin at the side of his spine and presses a kiss to his shoulder, inhaling smoke and salt and Castle in winter. He's still damp with dream-sweat right at his nape.

"I have something for you," she says finally, tightening her arm around his waist.

"Yeah?"

"Your Christmas present. If you want it."

He turns halfway, looking at her over his shoulder. "You do? Here?"

"It's on the computer," she admits. "The details. You want to come inside?"

While she's watching him, she sees his eyes clear, coming out of the fog. "Yeah, let's go inside."

 **X**

He can tell that she's being so very careful of him as they ride the elevator.

Castle rubs a hand through his hair and tugs, watching her as she walks ahead of him down the hall to the loft. She opens the door and holds it wide for him, and as he comes inside, she's pulling off the fleece and taking his coat from him.

She's fussing over him in that way she has - doing everything around him without touching him specifically. Putting away his coat, picking up the blanket that fell from his lap when he bolted, gathering the cartons of Chinese.

He feels better for the cold rain that touched his face, the brisk air. Better for the distraction of her moving around him, of a Christmas gift.

He follows her to the kitchen, then back to the fireplace. When she moves to take the mugs to the sink, he snags the back of her shirt. She turns to him, finally looks at him. Stops. Smiles.

Oh, she knows exactly what she's doing.

Kate steps into him, her hands running up his chest to tease at the nape of his neck. "Hm. I guess you want to know?"

"I want to know," he says quickly. Despite how disorienting it is to wake in the middle of the evening from a nightmare of blood, all these little things really do help. Kate ordering their world. As if she can straighten the outside and so straighten the inside.

She nods and moves to pass him, but he catches her hip. She gives him a surprised look and he darts forward to kiss her. Very softly.

Because he can. Because she's here, and he is, and what happened isn't now.

She curls her fingers in his collar and strokes along his skin. It's impressive, how much it both settles and unsettles him.

"Let me get it. Be right back."

He lets her go, and her hair brushes his shoulder as she moves away. He wanders for a moment, and then he sinks back down into the chair before the fire. He hooks a finger around her mug and drags it towards himself, but it's cold.

She comes into the kitchen with his laptop, and turns in place, looking for him. When she sees him in the chair before the fire, he wonders why he didn't call out, let her know where he is. But she heads for him with the laptop cradled against her chest.

Kate pushes on his shoulder to make him sit back. As he does, she sinks onto his leg and tucks herself into his lap, balancing the computer on her knees. "Here." She opens the lid and he sees she's called up her browser email.

He pulls the corner of the laptop until he can see the screen better, peering at a long thread of messages between her and some guy. "What is this?" he says, using his thumb to scroll even as he wraps a loose arm around her waist. She's not leaning into him, she's very much sitting upright, and he thinks she might be nervous. "Who is David?"

"David Zev," she says, nodding. "A former Israeli intelligence officer that I met while I did my training for the AG's office."

He whistles. "Israeli spy. Wow."

"Um, he says he's not a spy. But." She shrugs. "He was a training instructor in Israel for a decade, and now he teaches here. Mostly hand-to-hand, close quarters combat. He's very good - a grizzled old guy with a short white beard who could probably break your bones in half."

"I bet you had fun with that," he says, lips curling in a smile. Zev sounds like a character from one of his books. Or Santa Claus from a Rambo movie. "Did you mention him before? I think I remember something about an instructor who wiped the mat with you."

"That's him," she mutters. A roll of her eyes. "I never mastered him. I passed, of course, but he always got the best of me. I couldn't tell you his name before - classified - but-"

"But you can now?"

"He's your Christmas present."

Castle barks a laugh, lifting his eyes to her. "I appreciate the thought, Kate, but I'm not into that."

Her cheeks flame and she shoves on his shoulder, narrowing her eyes at him. "Not like _that_. Castle."

"What? I only meant breaking my bones in half." He grins, wriggling his eyebrows at her. "You don't always have to go straight to the gutter, Beckett."

"You don't always have to be an ass and ruin the moment."

"What moment?" he laughs at her. "You're showing me emails with a guy you apparently bought for-"

Oh.

His hilarity falls right out.

"Wait. You bought for me. For - you want him to break my bones in half?"

"Not in _half_. I just - I thought - he's very good, Castle."

"He's going to train me."

She gives a short, sharp nod, and he sees how determined she is. Not scared. The fear seems to be gone.

He glances at the email, but the thread is collapsed so he can't read the time stamp on it. "When did you do this, Kate?"

"Today. After last night I realized I don't want to live my life like this - waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like it was the year after I was shot." Her brow furrows, and she stands up, escaping his hold so she can pace before the hearth. "This is the only thing I know to do."

He doesn't want her to live like this either. And - well, training might come in handy. "Okay. So. How does this work?"

"It's a six-week course," she says, pressing a fist into her sternum. He knows that tell too, how she rubs at the knot of that scar when she's distressed. It kills him, but he lets her say her piece. "Some of it here, at the loft, because this is a - point of contact, he says."

"Where someone might come after us."

She nods. "Yes." No fear at all on her face, just all that blazing, fierce determination. Makes him proud of her. Proud of _them_ , that they've conquered this so far.

"Alright, and the rest?"

"The rest at his training center. Every - every day. Can you do that? Will you-"

"Of course. I will do anything, remember?"

She slumps a little, shoulders relaxing, but she's still pacing. "The time at his center would be intensive - there might be broken bones. I talked with him for a long time about - how much we get into on the job. How you've come through for me, saved my life. David says you must have good instincts. And that will make it easier. Easier but - it will still be a lot of work."

He touches the trackpad on the mouse to keep the screen from going dark, can't help skimming her emails with the guy. How _glowing_ her report on him, how her love pours off the page, her pride.

"He doesn't know about all of this - the case - but I used McCord's death as my impetus. A reason for contacting him. Plus I might have said that you're-"

"-a 'manchild in need of some discipline'?" he laughs, lifting an eyebrow as he reads from her email. "Oh, am I?"

Her lips quirk at that, but she stops pacing and steps in closer. "You know you are. It might be what I love most about you."

"Manchild." He stands to his full height, leaving the laptop on the side table. She actually backs up. "I need discipline?"

Her mouth curves at one side. "I meant - you know - martial arts training, street fighting. When you punch, Castle, you put a lot of passion in it, and your brute strength lets you get away with it."

"My brute strength."

Oh, look at Kate Beckett blush.

"And yet you always manage to take me," he murmurs, skimming his hands at her hips and under her shirt. "You are quite often on top."

"Well, now you'll know all my best moves. Maybe then you'll have your way with me."

"I get my way with you plenty," he brags, but the burr in his voice betrays him. He touches his open mouth to her cheek and she clutches at his shirt. "You want me to bulk up so I can be your bodyguard, Kate?"

She tosses her head in negation, one of her hands grips his ear. "No, I-" She swallows and presses her lips to his, a kiss so fast, so urgent, he's still a little dazed when she pulls away. "I want you to be my partner."

"I have never stopped."

She winds her arms around his neck and lifts on her toes, her whole body rubbing against his. He embraces her, keeping her steady, and he can't help noticing how strong she is, how determined not to be afraid.

"It's okay, Kate. It's okay to want me with you, okay to take a risk."

"It does _not_ feel okay to risk you," she grinds out, her forehead crashing into his. She holds on to him as if for dear life.

"Life is a risk," he says, shrugging. "A car accident. A freak thing - you can't stop it. I know it sounds cheap and weak, but it's true. _Love_ is a risk, and I took it with you. We do the riskiest things for love, and I won't stop loving you just because it gets scary."

She groans. "Even Royce told me that."

"What?" he laughs.

"Just - risking our hearts, never mind."

"No, I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to stop there. Royce said what?"

She squirms against him. "He wrote me a letter. His last words or penance or whatever. He said I had to stop putting the job ahead of my heart - that risking my heart was the point of all this."

Well. Look at that. "Mike Royce was good for something after all." And talk about _training_ officers. "You know this is basically the most awesome Christmas gift ever, right?" He kisses the tight worry of her mouth. "I'll be more badass than James Bond."

She nods, but he feels it wild in her, how this is taking a leap into the darkness, right into that black chasm of terror.

But he _will_ catch her. He will. "I'll take it seriously," he promises, tilting her head back, holding her still for him. Her bottom lip is between her teeth. "I do take it seriously. I won't let you down."

"You never have. Never." She sighs and ducks his hands, but she steps completely into him, chest to chest. " _Never_."

 **X**


	24. December 24

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _December 24_**

 ** _X_**

 _feel the magic_

 **X**

It's strange, but her email account is being spammed with 'Book News' from Black Pawn. She's not sure how this happened, but it's at least her personal account and not the official NYPD one. Nothing wrong with them, they're not phishing scams, and funnily enough, she finds herself interested in a few of their 'selected just for you' titles.

But it is odd.

The Improbability of Love catches her eye, a novel about a painter and his muse, and then a time-traveling murder mystery called The Shining Girls. The list includes far-ranging genres, beautiful covers, arresting covers, short blurbs that tease and tantalize. The little newsletters are curiously tailored for her exact tastes, not a single book is something she wouldn't actually pick up and read, despite how varying they are.

She finds herself most interested in the books that promise life outside New York City, where her home isn't the character's home, the setting someplace other than here. Not because she's not in love with her city, but because lately she finds an appeal in getting out of her own head, escaping.

Not running away, but...

Connecticut is close to her heart, and so here's a good one about winters in New England, an epic tale of three families. And then an email comes through highlighting the new one in the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo series, and she's hooked, scrolling through books, lost in that world. She wishes she had time to explore the Icelandic authors and their bleak, poetic mysteries.

Smilla's Sense of Snow. Oh, the excerpt alone has her.

She's rudely interrupted by an alert on her phone, pulled out of her rapidly filling wish list and back to work.

She closes her personal email with a wrinkle of her nose, shaking her head. Vikram has an update; he's asking her to meet him.

Books are for women who have _time_ to read, not for the Captain of the Twelfth who's trying to balance a myriad of investigations and procedures and administrative duties - all in time for Christmas Eve dinner.

 **X**

When his wife arrives home, she says nothing about his flurry of _bókatíðindi,_ though he's not sure she would actually bring it up. _Hey, Rick, why is your publisher sending me newsletters?_ But she takes his hand when he offers it, lets him draw her into the kitchen where he sways with her, a short impromptu dance, her back to his chest.

"You've left something for me to do, right?" She caresses the dry places at his knuckles and nudges her cheek into his. She's humming like she can hear the music he's dancing her to.

"You have the sweet potatoes, the green bean casserole, and the rolls."

"Those are all kind of easy," she says, spinning when he nudges her out. She comes back to him with the same spin, laughing a little, bumping her hips back into his. "You left me the easy things."

"So? You were working, hard at work, all day."

"And you weren't? I know you have the book and the PI business-"

"I took the day off," he smirks. "I told my boss I wasn't coming in. By the way, Merry Christmas Eve."

She flirts with a smile. "Merry Christmas Eve, Rick. Alright, the dance must end. I need to get started in here. Sweet potatoes are where?"

"In the crisper." He lets her go, releasing her to the kitchen, but that's just as good. Her body bumping into his as they work together, the soft fall of her hair as she bends over the cutting board.

Where she belongs.

Well, no, not that she belongs in the kitchen. Oops. No. She just - they belong together. Side by side. Killers or kitchens.

She elbows him aside. "Stop grinning and start chopping, Castle."

"Yes, ma'am."

 **X**

Her father gives her knowing looks as he comes through the front door, looks that even Castle can ascertain from here. She rolls her eyes at Jim but he thinks she looks a little flushed, a girl who doesn't want her father to be right - but is.

Castle takes Jim's coat and lays it over their bed rather than in the coat closet by the door. Kate comes to find him halfway down the hall and catches his hips in her hands.

"Hey, sorry. I should have let you dry clean-"

"It's a matter of five feet to put it in here instead," he tells her, taking a soft kiss before they have to return to the living room. He doesn't hold her hand because that would be a bit much, but he feels it anyway, the overflow of emotion that makes him want to.

And the thing is, Kate has her fingers hooked in his belt, like she feels it too.

Martha is talking serious business with Jim, or serious enough for her, their heads bent together over something. Castle clears his throat when he realizes it's a baby album, but thank goodness it's his daughter's. Martha waves him off and sips her wine, pointing out some Christmas photo to Jim.

"Katie has one just like that. Terrified of Santa Claus."

It's only mildly disconcerting that his wife shares so many traditions and milestones with his daughter, but Kate laughs and bumps his hip. "Wine, Castle? Looks like you need it."

"I'm going for the wassail instead," he mutters, sliding through the living room to the kitchen, Kate following. They settled on their favorite version last night, and he made up about a hundred cups of it in the coffee urn, orange slices and cinnamon sticks and all.

"You want?" he asks, holding up a mug.

"Please." She lifts a hand and he puts the mug into it, winking at her as she flushes again, apparently not meaning for him to do it for her.

Kate is still standing at the bar when the door knob turns with the scrape of a key. Alexis comes inside, filling out their party, and Rick has the sudden flash of revelation that his daughter might have wanted to invite Hayley, but never said anything to him.

Maybe they should have. He has no idea if Hayley has any family at all here.

Only if they invite Hayley, then it would have to be the Ryans and Esposito and Lanie as well, and this is supposed to be a time for family.

He needs to broaden their horizons, expand their repertoire. She warned him, his whole family warned him - that year Santa Claus fell from his sleigh in Central Park - that their Christmas traditions need to be adaptable, that things change.

Things _do_ change. Kate has made things different just by her presence, and it wasn't just moving the train set and making the candied yams herself. She used to spend her holidays at the Twelfth, pulling the Christmas shift, but she changed for his sake. And in five years, who knows where they'll be, and how their family will look, and he ought to be flexible enough to take it as it comes.

Kate has deserted him to bring wassail to his mother and hot tea to her father, playing host far better than he has. His daughter comes up at his elbow, bright hair spilling over her scarf.

"Are we ready?" Alexis says. She nudges him aside to pour herself a cup of wassail. "Did you and Kate make everything?"

"We did," he brags. "Hey, I should've asked. Did you want to invite anyone?"

Alexis scowls. "Dad, if this is your subtle way of asking who I'm dating, then the answer is _no one_ and why-"

"No!" he yelps. Laughing, he draws his arm around her and kisses the top of her head. "No, pumpkin. You stay just as you are. I meant - well, should we have invited Hayley?"

Alexis squirms. "I thought about it. But I wasn't sure... with Kate."

"What about Kate?" he murmurs.

"The photos in the paper and just - she works with you, Hayley, and I didn't want Kate to be worried."

Castle sighs and pats his daughter's back. "That's very considerate of you, Alexis, but Kate and I are good. We're really good. She wouldn't have minded. I don't think she would have even thought of it like that."

"Maybe next year," Alexis says, shrugging. She sips at the mug of wassail and then coughs, glancing up at him. "What did you guys put in this?"

"Rum," he says happily. "Come on." He lifts his voice to the rest of the room. "We're ready to eat. Everyone head for the table. Kate?"

She detaches from her father and comes to the kitchen, and together they pull the heavily-laden dishes from their warming spots and begin setting the table with food. Alexis helps at first, but Kate nudges her towards her chair, a smile that makes Alexis smiles back, and he's grateful for what they have and that it hasn't been spoiled either.

 **X**

"What is this, Castle?" she murmurs, lifting her eyes to him. He's been up and down from the table all night, the perfect and attentive host, in his element.

Now he's come back to his place at the head with a big red Santa sack, and he unknots the gold tassels. The whole table goes quiet to watch him, and Alexis gives her a questioning look.

But she shakes her head; she has no idea.

"So," Castle begins dramatically. "It has come to my attention that every year in Iceland-"

" _Iceland_ ," Martha mutters. "Darling-"

"Dad," Alexis starts, rolling her eyes. Jim is chuckling.

But Kate has just figured it out. Kate reaches for him and strokes his arm. "Go ahead, Rick. Every year in Iceland." All those supposed emails from Black Pawn. "You sent me book lists all day."

"Hey," Alexis startles. "Me too. You got emails about books? I thought my Amazon wish list was going crazy."

Castle grins.

Jim clears his throat. "I got this, actually. In the mail yesterday. Thought it might have to do with you, Rick." He lifts a hip and pulls out his wallet. Kate finds him unfolding a circular, one of those paper fliers with the dark, photocopied borders. "Book reviews. Not a single Nikki Heat title on here, but I wasn't fooled."

Castle laughs. "Alright, I admit-"

"Is that why there was that silly little thing in my door?" Martha gestures towards the flier in Jim's hands. "I got one of those too. What on _earth_ is going on, Richard?"

"As I was saying," he drawls. Winks at Kate. She bites her lip to keep from grinning foolishly, but it probably comes through anyway. He looks like a happy child. "Every year in Iceland, the months leading up to Christmas are inundated with new books. Publishers wait until that time to print new releases, and then all of the holiday shopping is focused on buying books for Christmas Eve."

"Sounds like they value the written word," Jim offers.

Kate squeezes Castle's hand as he opens up his bag. His smile is deep, and special, and it feels like it's only for her.

"I have attempted to recreate some of that Icelandic tradition with you all today. The compilations of book reviews are called _bókatíðindi -_ I'm completely making up the pronunciation-"

Jim chuckles, and Kate smiles up at Castle, patting his hand before she withdraws, letting him continue.

"Translated 'book news,' the _bókatíðindi_ is distributed to all households for free, just as I've done for you all. And on Christmas Eve, every family in Iceland give that one, perfect gift - literature."

Castle pulls a stack of wrapped presents from the Santa bag, one for each of them, no disguising they must be hardback books.

Kate sits up a little straighter, takes the gift he hands her. She watches him pass out his gifts to everyone else. She's going to have to remember this for next year, a book for Christmas Eve.

"In Iceland, this tradition is called _jólabókaflóð_ \- and yeah, I'm sure I've butchered the pronunciation there too. In English it means, Christmas book flood. And I thought we should bring a few more traditions to our table, celebrate the ways literature has influenced all of us, with a moderate-sized book flood of our own."

Kate stares down at the gift in her hands, the beautiful white and mint paper with traces of gold. The feeling from this morning of new worlds and possibilities comes flooding back to her.

"Go ahead. Open them up."

Castle puts the bag aside and sits down at his spot, and Kate glances around the table, watching the other three rip open their gifts. Alexis laughs, hearty bright spots on her cheeks, a glossy color photo book called Sketchy Santas: A Lighter Look at the Darker Side of St. Nick. "Oh, Dad, this is hilarious," she says, flipping through the book and giggling.

Martha has torn the paper from her own, and she toasts his gift, raising it in the air towards Castle, a thick book of nog recipes and other Christmas cheer - while her father is opening up the North Pole Employee Handbook.

They're reading excerpts to each other, laughing and chattering about their gifts, about books and the things they've read this year, when Castle nudges her.

"Open it, Kate."

She startles, looking back down at the gift in her hands. When she looks at him, unknown tension tightens the skin around his eyes. Waiting on her. Waiting for her. Wanting it to be right.

She does too.

It should be enough that she's here, that they're here together. This shouldn't mean so much, but it does.

Kate pushes her thumb under the tape and carefully opens it, sliding the paper from the book. A hardback, no dustjacket, but new and in the same style as all of his Nikki Heat books. The binding is deep crimson, the title in shiny evergreen: _All the Nikki That Never Was._

"What is this?" she says, lifting her head to him, cradling the book.

He looks nervous, like the times when he has her read a section to see if it sounds like something a detective would say or do, the times when he hands her the advanced reader copy and waits for her judgment.

"These are all of the sections that never made it into the Nikki Heat books. Everything I've had to cut over the years because it didn't fit or further the story. I always keep them, because I can't bear to delete hard-won words, and so I put them together. For you. If you want."

She cradles the book in her hands, stunned. "Like deleted scenes on a DVD."

He chuckles and she feels his hand come to her knee, that nervous play at her pant leg. "Kinda missing the point of the Christmas book flood, comparing it to a DVD."

She laughs with him, eyes flitting up to his.

He smiles like it hurts. "I had it bound myself, months ago, so it's the only copy. Will be the only copy. I think it would only make sense to you. Since so much of it is - personal."

She presses her hand over the deep red cover, her heart thumping, and then she opens the book.

Right to the dedication page, such an oft-practiced maneuver that it seems to offer itself to her. She reads and her heart clenches.

"Months ago?" she murmurs, lifting her eyes to his.

He nods, certain and uncertain, and Kate leans over and catches his jaw in a hand, kisses him with all the certainty in her.

 _for my wife, on Christmas_

 _whose presence at my side_

 _is all the hope of the season_

 **X**


	25. December 25

**Wintersong**

* * *

 _ **December 25**_

 **X**

 _love you more than you'll ever know_

 **X**

He finds her under the Christmas tree, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms hooked around her legs, cradling a mug of coffee. The red book of Nikki Heat is at her side, closed, and he knows she took it to bed last night, read longer than he could stay awake with her, despite several forays into fooling around, touches along her hip, her stomach, tantalizing her away from the book.

She kept going back to it.

He skims the top of her head and sinks to the couch, watches the lights with her in familiar silence.

She speaks first, unfolding from her posture before the tree and climbing onto the couch with him. "Merry Christmas, Rick." Her kiss has the flavor of vanilla and rich coffee beans, a hint of mint. She leans back and offers her mug. "Want?"

He hums his gratitude and takes a healthy swallow, the heat bleeding through him, all the stiff and unawake places. She winds her arm through his, her knees pulled up and pressed over his thigh, almost in his lap. Comfortable.

He keeps the coffee, lifts a hand to comb her hair back behind her ear. She lays her cheek to his shoulder, sighing softly. A good sigh, content. He likes content almost as much as he likes restless and fiery and passionate.

"I almost didn't make it," she murmurs. "How sad, that I might have missed this."

"Nah," he says, scraping a thread of her hair back from her lips and tucking it with the rest behind her ear. "I wouldn't have let you miss it."

"Oh?" The rise of an eyebrow.

"I'd have shown up at your doorstep and force-fed you Christmas cheer."

She chuckles. "And how exactly did you plan on _finding_ my doorstep?"

"What do you think those burner phones were for?"

Kate lifts up, glancing at him, lips pursed. "Aren't you clever."

"Well. Hayley's idea," he sighs, knocking his cheek into her forehead. "But I would've done it. Brought Christmas to you. I told you I wasn't giving up."

She lays her head back on his shoulder. "You bring Christmas magic with you." Her arm threads through his, fingers scratching the top of his thigh through his pajama pants. "I don't know how you always manage to get me. Winter rolls in, that first blast of cold, and I feel like those stupid red Starbucks cups."

"What?" he laughs, almost spitting out his sip of coffee. "Starbucks cups - the ones everyone has gotten in an uproar about?"

"Yeah, the plain red ones. No Christmas message, no holiday cheer. Like it's the best I can do to put on something red and try to fake it. Hope people think I'm being modern or subtle. I don't know. But you - you're the guy scrawling Merry Christmas all over me, you're my snowflakes and winter scenes and... joy."

Castle's chest expands. He lifts a hand and catches the side of her face, manages a kiss at the corner of her mouth. "That's - both beautiful and sad."

"No, it's not," she murmurs. "I have you. And you wouldn't have let me miss this."

"No, never," he promises.

She smiles, her chin nudging into his shoulder, face against his neck, and it makes him slosh the coffee. He holds the mug aloft, takes another sip to lower the level, make it a little safer, but she takes it from him. A sip of her own. She clasps the coffee mug in both hands, as if warming them, but she settles a little closer. Mug to her chest.

"What are you doing up so early?" he says finally. His hands are free now to find the skin just under the tank top, the one from the hardware store, and he strokes. "You couldn't sleep?"

She laughs a little, elbows him, squirming. "Your fault. I stayed up all night reading your almost-book."

He glances over at where she's left it on the floor before the tree. "You finished it?"

"Yeah," she grins, leaning back in the couch. Her hand lays at his spine, scratching. "I'll probably read it again after Christmas. It's sweet, and kinda hot, Castle."

He grunts. "Reason those scenes got cut."

"Mm, the one about taking those cover shoot photos? Definitely glad you didn't include that in the real books."

He lifts an eyebrow, but he knows she can't really see it from where she is. "Oh?"

She scratches his nape, pets at the hair there, leaning in against him to brush her lips along his ear. "Some things are just for us."

Castle glances back at her, smirking. "I think so anyway."

She turns her mouth up, smoothing her fingers at his nape. "Not the only reason I was up early."

"No?"

"No," she says, looking coy and clever. "You've been looking at it this whole time and didn't even notice."

"What?" He jerks his eyes up to the tree, scanning up all fifteen feet and then across to the wreaths at the window and-

She puts two fingers to his jaw and turns his head.

To the mantel.

"You made me a stocking," he gasps.

She's all warm and wriggling happiness at his back, leaning in against him, voice in his ear. "I did. Put it up this morning. But you know Alexis has one for you too, so you have to open it quick. Or hide it for later."

He glances sideways at her. "Hide it? _Should_ I be saving it for later?"

She presses her lips flat and looks like she's really thinking. "Maybe so. A couple things are..." A gesture of her hand that could be anything, or could be one very specific thing (wow), and he nods.

"Got it. Save it for later."

"Are you sure you can?" she teases.

" _Someone_ has been teaching me patience," he quips. And then he thinks better of it and glances at her, but she waves him off, _it's fine._

"If you think you can, then get it down from there and hide it away," she tells him. She gives a little scratch at his scalp and straightens up, feet on the floor again. Her kiss is soft at the corner of his mouth, a light brush of her lips. "I don't want Alexis to think I'm trying to upstage her."

Castle catches her arm before she can stand, pulls her back into him. "Thank you, Kate. For thinking of her-"

She shrugs it off, but her eyes are tender. She makes him release her, and she stands up, but she brushes her thumb against the corner of his eye, smoothing down the wrinkles.

"Actually, your kid is the thoughtful one. She came to me with your stocking a few days ago, and I put a few things in that one too." She ducks down and kisses his mouth. Slow, thorough. A Christmas mistletoe kiss. A kiss of love. "You did good with that kid."

She straightens up, caressing the side of his face before she takes his hand.

He stands with her, squeezing the hand in his before he lets her go. "Glad you think so. Now help me make some smiley face pancakes for my thoughtful kid, okay? Wake everyone up."

"Mm, pancakes," she says, a little more enthusiasm than he expected. "Merry Christmas to all."

 **X**

* * *

 **A/N:** Stay tuned for the New Year's Eve epilogue! Until then, have a wonderful holiday, however you celebrate - whether you are the one keeping watch or the one bringing Christmas cheer to another's doorstep.


	26. New Year's Eve

**Wintersong**

* * *

 ** _New Year's Eve_**

 **X**

 _beautiful things out of us_

 **X**

Castle wakes early Thursday morning to find his wife has crowded into his side of the bed, the covers and mattress radiating body heat, the whole thing familiarly uncomfortable.

And he's wide awake.

With ideas.

He swallows past the dry-sock in his throat, turns his head to brush a rough kiss against her elbow - up near his ear and hiding her head as if braced for impact in her sleep. He can't help the chuckle that gets caught in his chest like a burr, but it doesn't wake her, and he slides out from under her.

She stays sprawled mostly on his side, but she does that shiver-shudder thing of falling back into dreams, the twitch and drawing up that makes him wonder if he ought to wake her anyway. Just in case.

But she slays her own demons, even in dreams, and he does too. Only he slays his in front of his computer, and he has ideas. Phrases, whole scenes, language like a taste on his tongue, and he holds his body carefully as he heads for his study, afraid one wrong step will pop it like a bubble.

They have plans for their day, plans before she has to head into work because of the Times Square Ball Drop, but it's early yet and he can get this all down if he starts now.

So he starts now, opening his laptop and waking it up, anticipating the half-finished page and the chapter he started sometime during his melancholy and never got around to again.

He knows now. He knows exactly how it's supposed to go, and as he settles into his chair before the keyboard, he blows a kiss to his muse still rumpled in bed, ever thankful.

The joy of rebirth, renewal. The hope of a new year.

 **X**

She yawns and stretches, full height, on her toes, her spine popping and her shoulders pulling back, arms up, bones creaking and groaning. And then she drops down to flat feet, arms dangling, and sways for a moment beside the bed.

Long night at the Twelfth yesterday. It was such a wonderful thing to shed her coat, her shoes, her bag, her clothes and simply crawl into bed with him, his body still and unmoving in sleep so that her own just collapsed there beside him. She never _forgot_ how good that felt, having warm if sleeping arms to come home to, but maybe she took it for granted before.

Took him for granted.

Where is _him_ anyway?

Kate tugs down her shirt and finds her robe, shrugs it on before she goes wandering through the cold loft. The early morning light makes her squint when she passes from bedroom to office - for some reason the blinds are slanted in here - and she has to duck her head away and wait for her eyes to adjust.

And then she sees him perched at the edge of the leather couch, his laptop on his knees and his fingers flying over the keys, his body so rigid she knows he's deep into a scene, the story practically writing itself. She loves it best when he doesn't even notice her, when he can't disconnect from his interior world, and she slides forward on bare feet to stalk her writer prey.

His eyes glance up, away from the screen, but he doesn't seem to register what he sees, or maybe what he sees isn't her at all, because he goes right back to his writing, his hair in an unwashed hank over his eyes, so deeply furrowed in concentration.

She puts a knee to the leather cushion and crawls in behind him, and he only grunts and shifts forward marginally, leaning into the laptop as if to give her room. Does he know she's here? She can't be sure he does - that she's at all more than just a warm body in a room, a tug on his concentration. She could be anyone, or well, anyone with access to his office, and she finds a strange safety and comfort in that.

She doesn't make Castle any less than he is.

Kate lets out a breath and lays her cheek to the hunch of his back, closes her eyes. She feels the slight movement of his muscles in his shoulder blades, his trapezius as they pull his hands across the keyboard, his fingers flying from home row to capture the story as it happens in his head. Or right before his eyes, she thinks really; the story must project like a movie for him to write so fast, only minor hesitations, no self-editing, only forward momentum.

She loves feeling it under her, against her chest, like a heartbeat, the pulse of his writing.

She doesn't know how long she drifts there, curled up at his back and drowsing through the story, when Castle sucks in a breath and his fingers abruptly still.

She waits, thinking only that he's thinking, but he makes a movement and closes the lid of the laptop, leaning forward to lay it on the floor, Kate still riding his back.

A year ago, two, she might have said, _don't let me interrupt_ , but she knows him better now. Knows she couldn't interrupt unless he was truly at a stopping point, a resting place for the story playing in his head. She knows she can only interrupt if he wants to be interrupted.

His hand comes up and scratches the top of her head and she smiles, turns to put her chin to his shoulder, digging in.

Castle grunts, a knee jerking up, and she feels the hard knot just under her chin, works down into it. He yips like an animal and stiffens, and it only encourages her further.

Kate lifts from his back and dives into his shoulders, kneading the muscles held rigid for so long, caught in the thrall of the story. Castle lets out a groan and drops his head forward, slumping, his elbows on his spread knees, giving himself over to her. She paints a kiss at his ear and lifts up to her own knees, digs her elbows into the strained lines down his spine.

"Oh, God," he groans. "Right there."

She smirks because of how it sounds, but he's so far gone he's oblivious to even that, and she works her elbows deeper, popping the knots under the hard pressure of her bones. He twitches and grunts, he jerks and spasms, and she knows she's getting all the bad-good places, heating his muscles and straightening them out again.

When she's gone all the way down his back and up again, she works her fingers and thumbs at the base of his skull, being slow and careful. He rotates his head on his neck, easing into her touch, and she releases the tension he holds all through his body.

Rick breathes out, loose under her, and she leans in and presses her lips to the warm skin above his collar.

And then she drapes her body along his back once more and closes her eyes.

He stays where he is, braced on his elbows, and he lets her rest in it, probably doing the same himself.

When it's too good, when the feeling of having and being had makes her feel swamped, overwhelmed, better than she deserves, she lifts off his shoulders and slides around to his side.

Rick takes her hand and carefully touches her fingers, playing at them, squeezing them, his way of saying thank you. She bumps his shoulder. "Come on. Coffee and breakfast. We have a make-up showing of Star Wars at ten-thirty."

His lips draw out into a grin and he kisses the corner of her mouth. "I need a shower. You want to join me?"

"Oh, do I."

 **X**

All they can talk about is the movie, from the time they leave the theatre, to the subway platform, to the long walk home in the bitter wind. Alexis wants a staff like Rey's _and probably her boots_ and Castle is musing aloud about how they could make one, duct tape and PVC pipe and spray paint on a shower head.

Martha interrupts to regale them with a hilarious tale of Rick falling asleep at the original release, opening night, one hand in his popcorn, after having tormented her for months about being allowed to go.

"I was worn out," Castle protests. "I was so excited that I couldn't sleep the whole night before. The whole _week_ before."

Alexis shakes her head. "Oh, Dad, it wasn't just then. Remember, you fell asleep on our plane ride to Disney. My very first! But the stewardess was so nice to me. She gave me extra bags of peanuts."

"I woke up before we landed," he grumbles.

"Quite a catch there, Katherine. My son has a rare gift. He can fall asleep at the most exciting moments."

Kate cuts her eyes to her husband and finds his ears glowing pink, though she still doesn't know if the stories are true or not, and she takes pity on him. "I wouldn't want him any other way. Even if it means he's falling asleep in the popcorn."

It gets the laugh, Alexis and Martha both, but from Rick, she finds her hand in his, the intensity of his eyes on her. He leans in close and touches a kiss to her ear. "I've never fallen asleep on you."

"Not yet," she smiles. "Though, I guess, now I should consider it an honor."

By the time they bundle onto the elevator, everyone close, bumping up against layers, some of their camaraderie has leaked out, just enough to leave them smiling but silent, each one already turned to her own thoughts. Alexis has the keys in her hand and she unlocks the loft for them, but she doesn't come in.

"Actually, guys, I'm going to head out. There's a party later, and I want to hook up with some friends from high school while they're still in town."

Kate expects Castle to deflate, but he doesn't at all. He leans in and kisses his daughter's forehead. "Have fun, pumpkin. Mother, are you sticking around or going home?"

"Ah-ha, darling, you know I've got plans." Martha flutters her hand at him. "Schedule is quite tight, a costume change is in order before I can be presentable. So I'll take the elevator down with Alexis."

"You already look fantastic," Kate murmurs, embracing her mother-in-law anyway. "No need to change." Martha smells of Chanel No. 5 and make-up powder, which is nothing at all like Kate's own mother, and yet it makes her nostalgic.

"Thank you, darling, that's a lovely thing to say." Martha squeezes hard and then releases her, pats her son's cheek as Rick moves to embrace her. Kate offers a good-bye to Alexis, and then the younger women is leading her grandmother down the hall to the elevator.

When the door closes after them, it feels oddly electric in the loft, as if it's the night before Christmas and the anticipation is heady. She turns to Castle, assuming he wants more of her, since she only has about six hours before her shift starts at the precinct, and all of that current and expectation seems to be coming from him.

But he's gathering his keys and collecting gloves, giving her an apologetic look. "I have a couple errands to run before our early dinner."

She stands in the middle of the entry, her coat already off and scarf unwound, a little stunned. But she recovers, nodding. "Okay. I might take a hot bath, actually. Gone long?"

"Long enough for a bath," he says, giving her a wink. "You don't mind?"

She shrugs and moves past him, hanging up her coat. "Sounds great. Go ahead, Castle."

He kisses her, hard and a little off-center, and then he hustles out the door, locking it behind him. Kate stands in the empty loft for a long moment before she finally rouses, heads aimlessly for the master bathroom and a soak in the tub.

Maybe she'll bring his book, the Nikki excerpts, read it over again. It's a rather tame way to spend her New Year's Eve, but she does have to work through midnight, and at least they were able to see his movie together.

Could be worse.

She could be without him.

 **X**

"Kate?" he whispers.

"'M awake," she murmurs, opening her eyes.

Castle is crouched before the couch, his fingers hovering just above her cheek. He strokes back along her ear and she shivers, trying to hold on to his gaze, battling sleep.

His kiss is soft, words softer. "You ready?"

"Ready?" she whispers, her voice cracking with disuse. How long has he been gone? When did he come back?

"To ring in the New Year."

She blinks and scans the darkness of the loft, lifts her head from the arm of the couch. "To what?" She startles and jerks upright, brushing the back of her hand along her mouth. "What time's it? I have to be at work at eight-"

"You didn't miss it. I wouldn't let you oversleep. It's only four-thirty, Kate. I have dinner ready."

"Oh." She runs her tongue against her teeth and winces at the dry taste in her mouth. "Mm, didn't mean to fall asleep." She pushes off the couch, confused by the way he watches her, and she turns for the kitchen.

But it's sparkling clean and empty.

His hands fall to her hips, tug her back towards him. "Not here. I need you to put on those wool socks you got in your stocking. And the fingerless alpaca gloves. I've got everything else."

"My what?" She stumbles a little as he pushes her towards the bedroom. "My gloves?"

"Trust me."

Her body obeys reflexively, though questions still crowd her mouth, and she finds herself heading down the hall for the little pile from her Christmas stocking, still in a collection beside the bed.

"Maybe put some long-johns on under those jeans, Kate!"

She glances back at him, can't fathom why she needs to bundle up again. Maybe he got tickets for a repeat showing of the movie? She dresses automatically, still fuzzy with a nap she had no intention of taking, but she has to wriggle her hips to get her jeans up over the layer of thermal underwear. Warm though. Too warm in the loft.

He said dinner was ready?

Kate comes back out into the living room straightening the sleeves of her alpaca gloves, and Castle is standing before the front door, his arms filled with the fleece jacket from the hardware store in Connecticut and the blanket she used to cover her legs on the couch.

"Come on," he says, encouraging.

"I don't need shoes?" she asks.

"You have on those wool socks, right?"

"Yeah." The dark grey ones with neon yellow tread on the bottoms. She lifts her foot to show him and he chuckles, grabbing for her elbow and tugging her towards the door.

She follows him out into the hall and to the elevator, and though her confusion is all-encompassing, her resistance is erratic, unable to take hold because of that nap.

He presses a button on the elevator before she can see, his back to the numbers so she won't know where they're going. But when the lift rises and the doors ding and slide open, she already knows they're on the roof.

Castle steps out, turns for her, and he bundles her in the fleece jacket, which she dutifully pulls on. And then he's draping the blanket over her shoulders like a cape, smiling at her like he has a wonderful secret. He keeps both ends in his hands and tugs her out after him, and she goes, follows him down the hall, her own spark of anticipation beginning to grow, twitching her lips.

"What'd you do, Castle?"

"I told you. Dinner."

He tugs her to the roof access, uses the apartment building key fob across the plate, and the lock buzzes and clicks to green. He pushes open the door, but he guides her out ahead of him.

"Close your eyes, Kate."

She does automatically, her heart beating a little too fast, tripping over the threshold before he catches her.

His hands on her hips, tucking the blanket tighter around her, Castle nudges her forward, his breath in her ear, the rasp of his skin against her jaw. He's folded over her from behind, warm at her back even through the fleece, and she drops her hands to cover his, letting him slow-dance her forward.

"Okay," he breathes. "Open your eyes."

She does, lashes parting slowly to prolong the return of that electric feeling from before, and she gasps. "Castle."

He's strung white twinkling lights across the roof in haphazard sweeps, pinpoints of beaming light. Under them lies a wide-bodied hammock chair where he's apparently piled every blanket and pillow from the loft, and to either side are dark wooden tv trays with Chinese takeout cartons piled high, steaming in the cold.

"Oh, Castle," she beams, turning to look at him as he steps up beside her. "It's beautiful."

His grin is deep. "You didn't think I'd let New Year's Eve go by without a celebration of our own?"

She bites her bottom lip, shakes her head. "I didn't think all this."

"Here, come on. Don't let it get cold."

He pulls but she doesn't need to be pulled; she heads for the chair and sits on the end, leaning out for a couple of cartons and two forks. Castle sits beside her and makes a nest of the blankets, opens his arm for her to snuggle back against him.

He wraps their legs tight against the cold, draws the blankets around them both, and she hands him a fork and a carton. They bump and nudge each other as they get situated, the hammock swinging on its frame, their bodies pulled together like two heavenly forms in orbit until they can finally half-recline.

She finds herself filled up, laughing for no reason, feeling as if the night has been remade.

It's the cold, it's the way the man wriggles next to her, it's the scent of Chinese food and the lights that twinkle and shimmer around them. It's cozy, and she pops a piece of chicken in her mouth, closing her eyes at the taste, the sharp and rich flavors on her tongue. The things she took for granted but hopes she never will again.

"How's that?" he murmurs, and she nods, her head against his shoulder, her body tucked in and surprisingly toasty. He's adjusting his feet to lay over hers, keeping her warm. "Good. Now. Look up, Kate."

She clasps the carton against her chest and tilts her head back, gasping at the dizzying expanse of stars overhead.

And then she laughs, realizing it's a projection on a dark sheet, a glorious display of the universe, nebulas and the Milky Way, the twinkling lights in proud and sharp imitation.

He finds her hand above the blankets, fingers rubbing at the tips of hers, stroking into her gloves. "I did good?"

"You did - Castle. This is amazing." She traces the lines of constellations with her eyes, the stars shifting as if the earth is spinning below. The beautiful cosmos, the lights, the winter chill at her cheeks. "It's so..." She shakes her head, staring above. She never has the words. Her awe fills her throat.

"I made us our very own Connecticut," he hums. "Not half bad."

She grins up into the unnatural darkness, turns her head for a glimpse of Castle in the light of his manmade stars. "Rick," she sighs, curling her fingers around his and kissing his dry knuckles, those rough places against her lips. "You're a beautiful man. Thank you for this."

He kisses her, a thumb rubbing her bottom lip before he does it again.

And then they eat between half-spoken conversations, watching the stars, elbows bumping and sharing cartons, stealing the last bites from each other before opening another carton. It's mindless and it's not; it's finding a new pattern for their life. It's the investigation, the justice she can't be blind to, and his determination to be there for it. He asks her, shyly, about the book of Nikki excerpts and she spends a long time whispering her favorite parts to him as if they're best-kept secrets.

When her fingers are warm again and they've heated up the blankets, he stacks up their Chinese takeout cartons, one inside the other, puts them away before bringing out a bottle from a cooler at his side. He wriggles his eyebrows, dancing the bottle closer.

She sighs, leaning her cheek to his shoulder. "I can't. I have to go on duty in-"

"It's sparkling cider," he says, a little smug.

She laughs, nudges her cheek against him. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Pretty much," he grins. He pours two glasses, tumblers from the set in his office, and hands her one.

Their glasses clink as they tip them together, she feels the cold seeping into her fingers, the chill of sparkling cider bubbling at her nose. She giggles and sips slowly, letting it fizz across her tongue, and she leans her cheek back to his shoulder, watching the stars.

He downs his own glass and refills it, puts the bottle back down beside the chair. They sit twined together, hip to hip, ribs catching as they breathe, and soon Castle is nuzzling in against her temple, down at her cheek.

"Kiss for the New Year."

"At five p.m.?" she murmurs, refusing his kiss with a teasing withdrawal.

His smile breaks against hers. "They're celebrating in Paris and Rome, so it counts."

"Well, then. When in Rome." She nudges her nose against his, takes a kiss from him that fills her with starshine and fizzing, tastes like love. "Together in the New Year."

"Better together," he promises. And then, shaking his head. " _More_ together. We'll be more. Together."

 **X**

* * *

 **Happy New Year!** May you find blessings in your every day, more and more.


End file.
